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BUT THERE ARE OTHER GRIEFS WITHIN

Sherlock doesn't see Molly again for another four months, and in all that time neither he, John nor Mary find out what's wrong with her.

Oh, they try: John by dropping into the morgue for a friendly chat when Mary's in for a consultation. Mary by going the more traditional route of appearing on Molly's doorstep with a bottle of wine, a bag of DVDs and enough Indian food to feed a starving family of ten. Sherlock calls into the morgue whenever and how often he pleases but it does absolutely no good; Molly manages to duck every attempt at talking to her in private, John by telling him that she has a delicate autopsy that she needs to work on without distraction, Mary by telling her that Ollie had picked that very night to make a romantic meal for two and she's so sorry but would Mary mind doing this another evening?

Sherlock, Molly doesn't even give the opportunity to duck to.

She just ignores him whenever he comes to the morgue unless it's on official business, and even then she won't let him in unless a member of the Met is with him.

So the months go by and nobody talks to her. Every time they try she has a new excuse, and what with the problems with her health- she's been absent four times in the last few months alone- there's not a lot of opportunity to pin her down. At first Sherlock is merely interested in her change in attitude. After all, one would think a woman who'd lie for you, procure a corpse for you and risk the wrath of a massive criminal organisation just so you could fake your death would be a little less willing to stop spending time with you once you could be seen in public with her again. He knows he's made her nervous over the years, but he had thought his time hiding out at her flat had cured them both of their mutual tendency to put their foot in it around one another. In fact, he would have thought that he and Molly Hooper had become… friends. But clearly he was mistaken, he thinks testily, since these days she appears to be allergic to him-

If, however, Molly thinks he's going to give up on her just because she's ducking him then she clearly doesn't know him very well.

Mycroft, every teacher who ever taught him at Harrow (before he was kicked out) and every DI he's worked with besides Lestrade could have told her that that plan simplywasn't going to work.

So one day he sneaks into the morgue in St. Bart's without telling her. Just puts on a hi-vis' jacket and a stolen police cap and waltzes right in the door. Since he's being covert, he decides to come in the back, the better to observe her working before she realises he's there: He appreciates that this is apparently "creepy," (Mary's words) but he doesn't really see what the problem is. It's not like he's bloody sneaking in to watch Molly change. The layout of the morgue is simple: There's the lab/body room where the corpses are kept on their slabs, a small back office partitioned into three for admin (though the pokiness of the rooms means that most of the pathologists sit in the main space to write up their reports) and then there's the tiny toilets and changing area, where everyone has their work lockers and keeps their things. It's this that he walks through (unlocked fire-exits are a Godsend for anyone in his business), smiling to himself at the thought of finally getting to talk to Molly.

Because whatever happens, he thinks, he's going to get to the bottom of this today.

He moves quietly from the locker-room to the admin area, watching for other people as he goes. It's quiet- Stamford's on his lunch- and there's nobody to distract Molly from him and their long-overdue conversation. He can see her now, leaning over a body and examining its neck. As he gets closer Sherlock realises the corpse is that of a woman, mid to late seventies with iron-white hair. She's been beaten badly about the face and shoulders, her nose cartilage clearly broken ante-mortem. Molly frowns at what she sees, leaning downwards. Her lab-coat hangs loosely off her- she's lost weight since last he saw her- and she's wearing only a long-sleeved tee-shirt, her hair messily tied back off her face. As she moves to get a closer look at the subject's neck both the lab coat and tee shift, exposing a sliver of one pale shoulder-blade and a worn, black bra strap-

And suddenly Sherlock's staring, riveted, at the young pathologist.

Because there, on her neck and shoulders, unaccountably, unarguably, Molly Hooper sports an angry, mottled, yellowing-to-purple bruise.

Sherlock has seen plenty of physical injuries before. He's studied their effects, made sure too that he's familiar with any medical issues within his circle of friends which might explain the presence of contusions or other injuries. But Molly Hooper, he happens to know, does not suffer from any of them. And besides, the injury he's looking at was clearly caused by a hand. A large, long-fingered, more than likely male hand. The pattern of bruising is quite distinctive, blue-black smudges arrayed in the unmistakable shape of fingers. Darker marks at the outward radius where nails had gripped her skin and dragged her bodily.

This had not been a playful little tussle, he thinks darkly.

This had… This had been the sort of thing which would have hurt.

Sherlock can feel the beginnings of anger- no, rage- mounting within him. Just as it had when Moriarty threatened his friends, just as it had when Neilson and his men harmed Mrs. Hudson. Because the placement of that bruise, he knows, is not accidental. It's too unusual, too easily hidden by both clothing and Molly's hair. Somebody made that mark on Molly, he thinks, and they didn't want anyone to see it. If an injury like that had happened accidentally then he would have heard about it. She would have missed work and the reason given would have been injury, not flu as her last four reported illnesses had been. And had Molly been in some sort of fight then he would know about it too: Lestrade would make sure to tell John even if he still hadn't forgiven Sherlock enough to tell him. Because the people he cared about were a group, a family of sorts. A unit. Molly was one of their members and they looked after one another- At least, they looked after one another if given the bloody chance. And they protected one another if given the chance too, a fact which Sherlock suspected the person who hurt Molly would soon find out to his cost.

Molly gave him his life back, she saved him.

The least he could do was make sure that she was not hurt.

Holmes knows that he shouldn't do what he does next. He knows that there could be a reasonable explanation, though he doubts it. Just as he knows he should bring his worries to someone- possibly Mary- and ask her to test the waters with Molly. Because Christ knows if he tries it he'll probably muck it up. But though he knows that he still finds his feet propelling him forwards. He marches into the morgue as self-righteously as a priest into a pulpit, stealth forgotten, and as he does so he sees Molly look up from her cadaver. She blinks in surprise- for a moment he doesn't think she recognises him- and then he sees the familiar, shuttered look go through her eyes as she realises who he is.

She crosses her arms over her chest defensively. "I told you, you're not supposed to be in here, Sherlock," she says. "I know you think sneaking in is funny but I don't-"

Sherlock plants himself in front of her, glares down at her. He realises that he's probably intimidating her but he can't really bring himself to move back.

"What happened to your shoulder?" he says instead, ignoring her chiding. Her eyes widen.

"You're not- Nothing happened to my shoulder." She's babbling and it's a bloody long time since she's done that around him. "I just… I just fell at home. Hit my shoulder-blade off the doorknob to the downstairs loo. You remember how awkward that handle is-"

Sherlock makes an impatient motion with his hands. "Don't forget who I am, Molly," he says curtly. "The bruise on your shoulder was made by fingers. I can clearly see the pattern they made, and I can probably extrapolate how large the person's hand was. I'm guessing, judging by the size, that it was a large, heavy-set man. Now, if it was an unknown assailant- which is unlikely, since you wouldn't lie for a stranger- then we can use that to start tracking him down. If it was someone you know, I can still use that hand-print to start looking. I'll just call Lestrade and-"

"No!" She snaps it at him and it's so loud and so frightened and so desperate that this time it's Sherlock's turn to blink. "It was an accident," she says, more quietly. "Ollie didn't- I fell and he was helping me up."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at her. "He was helping you up by the scruff of the neck?" he asks harshly.

Manhandling a woman should not come so easily to any man, he thinks.

Redness is starting to come to her cheeks, her gaze sliding from his. Embarrassment, then, rather than anger. "I was drunk," she says. "Couldn't get my legs to stay under me-"

This Sherlock finds hard to believe. Molly knows her limits, she doesn't often drink enough to become unsteady on her feet, let alone lose control of her body. "He still shouldn't have picked you up like that," he says. "You're a small woman: a fireman's hold would have been far more logical-"

Her eyes harden. Ah, anger: There you are. "We're not all as logical as you," she says. Her hands ball into fists as she says it, and this Sherlock finds inexplicable.

Why on Earth would she be irritated with him?

"It's not about being logical," he snaps back, "it's about making sure you're not hurt. Even if you weren't able to stand, he shouldn't have picked you up like that."

He gestures to her neck and she flinches back a little. Though he knows that she's probably just wary of having anyone touch the injury, Sherlock still feels a flash of hurt at her withdrawal and that, he knows, makes no sense at all.

"Look, Mr. Holmes," Molly says, and this time she's biting out the words, "this is none of your business. I'm none of your business, not any more. So you can just take your smugness and your insinuations and your big, flowy coat and bugger off, alright? Have you got that?"

And with that she turns on her heel and marches out of the lab before he can say anything else to her. Sherlock hears the outer doors to the morgue slam and he can't think of a single thing to make her come back in. So he pulls out his phone and talks to John, and after that he has his first full-tar cigarette in more than a year, leaning against the gates of Postman's Park. He feels… He feels slightly dizzy.

He goes home to Baker Street to find Mrs. Hudson waiting in his rooms for him, and from there on his day just gets progressively worse.