"How is it," Greg asked Donovan as they sat watching the surveillance video for the third time, "that one of England's leading and most important hospitals has such crap video security?"

He'd watched the damn video four times on his own the day before. Well, he'd watched the slideshow of rough, grainy pictures that the cameras around the halls and loading dock took every five seconds. They gave him a frustrating picture of what had happened that night. The dock camera showed two individuals, dressed in dark jumpsuit uniforms, standing outside of the door until an employee exited. How they managed to convince that employee that they belonged, Greg didn't know. One shot showed the door opening, and the next showed the two individuals halfway inside. He jotted down a note to find out who the employee was and to ask them about what they'd seen.

The interior camera showed snippets of them making their way down the deserted morgue hall, disappearing into the refrigerator and emerging minutes later with the body bag of Linda Davi on a stretcher. The loading dock door was propped open when they came out, and the camera just barely caught the edge of a white vehicle that the body bag was hastily placed into.

The stretcher was shoved back into the hall, the burglars disappeared out of sight, and in the next frame the vehicle was gone.

Some two minutes later, they reappeared on the screen, their jumpsuits gone and sports caps obscuring their faces. The door, having been propped open by the stretcher, was wrenched open and one of them stood guard while the other went back inside. The same path was followed, much quicker this time, and the burglar came out of the refrigerator with a box. But this time, rather than heading back towards the dock, he went off in the opposite direction.

It was enough to make Greg's brow furrow.

Then, in a moment that made his stomach knot, Molly came walking down the hall. She pushed into the morgue and ten seconds later the camera caught the burglar running back down the hall.

The encounter was far too close for comfort. It made him sick to think how close that had all come to disaster.

"At least we can tell them where they can put their money during the next budget discussion," Donovan said. "I can't believe Molly didn't walk right into all of that."

"I'll tell her to buy a lotto ticket," Greg half-joked.

Donovan chuckled and hit rewind on the video, taking another look at the vehicle that made a brief appearance in the frames. She had focused in on that detail, determined to catch something to track down.

"There's no way we're getting a license plate off of this, is there?" she muttered.

"Not likely." He stood up and pulled his blazer from the back of the chair, slipping his arms into the sleeves and adjusting it.

"Sort of looks like a lorry, doesn't it?" Donovan said, pointing towards the boot of the car.

"It makes the most sense," he agreed, leaning forward and squinting at the screen. "I don't see anyone tossing a body bag into a Fiat."

"Well it's somewhere to start," she said, pulling her writing pad towards her and scribbling down a few more notes.

"Brilliant, that means we're looking for a white lorry in London," he said cynically. "That should be a snap."

"Don't you have a staff member to interview?"

"On my way, sergeant," he said with an official salute, leaving her to her project.

He was pleased to see an extra security presence at Barts when he arrived. Armed with a screenshot of the employee on the video and a timestamp of the event, he pressed the button for the lift to go in search of Mike Stamford. He looked up in surprise when the doors slid open and he saw John and Sherlock.

"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted him with a nod. "Here about the break-in, I assume."

"Are you?" Greg asked, somewhat confused.

"Sort of," Sherlock said vaguely.

John spared Sherlock a judgmental look before smiling at Greg, throwing his hand out to hold the lift doors as they started to close. Greg stepped forward quickly, taking the open place next to Sherlock.

"I didn't know you were investigating this one," he said, trying not to sound defensive. It was his case, after all, and Sherlock usually only helped with NSY if he was requested.

"We're not," Sherlock replied unhelpfully. "We're investigating the theft."

Greg leaned forward and looked to John, silently asking for help.

"Jewelry theft," John told him. "We were approached by a private client."

"I was approached by a private client," Sherlock clarified.

Greg pulled a slightly confused face and stared straight ahead. The lift reached the second floor and the doors opened onto the brightly lit hospital hall. All three of them stepped off and Greg decided to follow them to the lab before continuing on to Stamford's office.

Considering that the only people who could possibly be bothered by the theft of the jewelry were either dead or missing, Greg was having a hard time understanding why Sherlock would be interested in what had happened.

"And you think, what, this is the same set of thieves?" he asked as they walked.

"Maybe."

"What would a jewel thief want with the corpse?" Greg questioned.

"An excellent question, Garret," Sherlock said with a thin smile, pulling the door to the lab open and holding it while John walked inside. "Very possibly, that's the reason I am investigating."

"So," Greg said, catching the door before it closed as Sherlock walked inside the lab. "Are we collaborating on this one, or…"

"If you wish," Sherlock said as he removed his gloves and coat, hanging it on the hook by the door.

"If it is connected, might go faster if we share information," Greg suggested.

Sherlock sighed and tipped his head back, looking irritated.

"Fantastic," he said, sounding anything but excited. "Feel free to tell me all about what you discover from… why are you here again?"

"Meeting with Stamford for an employee identification," Greg informed him. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Might check in on Molly, see how she's doing."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his tone clipped.

"Well…she narrowly avoided being in the middle of the burglary," Greg said, the images on the surveillance video popping up in his mind.

"She's fine," Sherlock told him.

"You've seen her?"

"Yes. And she's fine. Now go do whatever it is you're here to do."

Sherlock turned on his heel and strode directly to a microscope, pulling a vial of something out of his pocket and placing it on the lab bench. He began to gather other items that he needed and Greg glanced away, making awkward eye contact with John. He stepped back and let the door swing shut, feeling oddly like a dismissed child, which he hated. In general, he liked working with Sherlock and certainly had more appreciation and affinity to the him than most. The way that Sherlock had changed over the years from the wasting young man who tripped into Greg's care to the man he was now (however imperfect) was more than anyone had really expected. The man meant a lot to him.

That didn't mean he couldn't also be a complete arse.

Stamford was able to recognize one of the lab techs based the security photo and the time stamp for their clock-out. He called for the young man to be brought into the office for Greg to interview. According to twenty-three year old Raj Kalkat, two men with a delivery order to replace a part of the refrigeration unit were waiting on the loading dock when he ended his shift for the day. They showed him the work order, he thought nothing of it and let them in. They were described as tall, Caucasian, and middle aged.

When Greg asked for clarification on middle aged, Raj's ego-boosting response was, "I dunno, thirty-five?"

Greg refrained from dropping his head into his hands and dismissed Raj, thanking him for the information.

oOo

It was late into the next day when he was trying to capture decent screenshots of the suspects that something caught Greg's eye. Bringing up both shots of the duo entering Barts, he called Donovan in, pointing at the side-by-side pictures on his computer.

"What do you see here?" he asked her. Donovan squinted a bit, looking carefully, but obviously not quite catching what he was going for. "Remember what our witness said about the two men? Tall?"

"Oh," Donovan said with a sharp inhale, her eyes widening.

Greg nodded, glad that he wasn't the only one who noticed that one of the people in the second shot, whoever it was, was not the same as the ones that had stolen the body. The first two easily reached the top hinges of the loading dock door. This person came short by about half a foot.

"Two different people," Donovan sighed.

"Two different groups," Greg elaborated, rubbing his temples at the complication. He groaned and stood up. "I'm going back down there to have a look around."

"SOCO already swept Barts from top to bottom," she pointed out, swiveling in her chair to look at him.

"The morgue, yeah. But where did our short burglar go before he cut out of there?" He glanced at his watch. Shortly after six, he should basically have the place to himself to look around. "I want to see what he was after."

"Hm," Donovan hummed with a nod, taking the printouts of the screenshots to be distributed to the media. "Say hi to Molly for me."

Greg paused, frowning at her.

"She won't be there, it's after five," he said, realizing too late that knowing Molly's schedule did not exactly work in his favor. Donovan's smirk was confirmation of that.

"Well if she is," she said cheerfully. "Say hello."

oOo

Molly sat in front of the mass spec, hitting the 'next' button on her iPod for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was one of those days when her shuffle option seemed to choose every song she was not in the mood to hear, especially when she was trying to distract herself while waiting for a chemical analysis to complete. For the second time. Because a co-worked had diluted a sample wrong and the test had crashed out the first time. If there was anything else to be done while she waited, she would have gladly taken care of it, but the place was spotless and all of the paperwork she could get done for the time being was finished. And so she sat in a mostly dark basement lab, watching a machine run tests for her because a court case demanded a thorough printout of toxicology.

"Dreams" by The Cranberries started playing and she reached into her lab coat pocket and hit 'next' again. She liked the song, but it wasn't quite doing anything for her at the moment.

In the few seconds of silence in between songs, Molly heard a door open and shut out in the hall. She pulled the earbuds out of her ears and sat up, listening.

Were those footsteps? The cleaning staff didn't usually arrive until much later.

She got up from her chair and walked towards the door, straining to look out of the small window without making herself too obvious. Another door, not too far down the hall, opened and closed rather quickly.

She held her breath and listened. There were definitely footsteps. The lab was supposed to be empty at this time of night. She plastered herself against the wall beside the door and turned the light switch off, waiting and hoping that whoever it was would just go back upstairs without noticing her. It was probably nothing, but given what had happened just a few nights before, she felt she had good reason for her heart to be pounding in her chest. She could hear the footsteps approaching, getting closer…

Running on pure adrenaline, she stepped out just as the person opened the door to the lab, hauling her elbow into their stomach. There was a loud grunt as the person doubled over and she took advantage of that, bringing her arm down across his shoulder blades. When she saw a hand come out towards her, she panicked, smacking it away and swinging her fist at her assailant's face. It connected firmly, and she howled at the same time the man shouted in pain, falling to the ground finally. Molly bit her lip and shook her hand out, but kept her eyes firmly on the figure before her.

"Mo – Molly, stop," he wheezed. "S'me. Jus' me."

"Greg?" she gasped. "Oh my God, I'm sorry! I thought it was another break-in!"

She reached down and grabbed his arm, helping him to his feet and peering up at him in the dim light. He had his head tilted back and a hand to his nose. Molly winced.

"Did I break it?"

"Don' thin' so," he told her. "Jus' bleedin.'"

"Here, come sit down," she instructed him, scrambling for the light switch and guiding him towards a stool.

Once he was seated, she darted to the emergency kit and grabbed a pack of paper towels from the supply cupboard.

"Who taught you to hit like that?" Greg asked her incredulously as she ripped a few towels from the packaging and handed them to him to help catch the blood.

"I've worked with the Yard and Sherlock Holmes for more than six years, you think I haven't taken a few self defense classes?" she answered quickly, placing one hand on the top of his head and gently pressing his face forward. "Don't tip your head back, that doesn't help. It's better to lean forward."

"Taking classes?" he repeated, trying to lift his eyes to look at her while still keeping his head down per her direction.

"Kickboxing, Krav Maga. I've gone for a while," she explained while she prepped a few more towels with rubbing alcohol, eying the broken skin around his nose.

"You looking for a new job?" he asked. "There are cops at the Yard that don't throw a punch as well as you."

Molly chuckled, but it quickly turned to a wince as he pulled the towels away from his face and examined the amount of blood he had lost. Not much, but she still felt awful for hurting him. And getting his nice white work shirt stained with blood.

"Here, you're cut up a bit," she told him, placing her fingers under his chin to hold him steady as she dabbed at the cut with the alcohol.

"I've had worse, trust me," he assured her, briefly meeting her eyes before glancing away. "Arguably the best treatment I've had by an assailant."

"Quite literally the least I can do," she said, assessing his face and deciding that he was as patched up as she could make him. She balled the paper towel in her hands and straightened up, taking a step back. Watching him gingerly dab at his nose, his eyes still watering, an idea dawned on her. "Have you been at work all day?"

"Yeah," Greg replied, sniffing a little and scrunching his nose experimentally. "Ten hours at the Yard, always a great way to spend a Saturday."

Molly bit her lip.

"Can I buy you dinner?" she asked. "Not sure if it makes up for beating you to a pulp, but I thought… might be a good start."

Greg blinked up at her, looking hesitant.

"Unless, if you've already eaten, or, or if you don't want to, that's fine," she rushed to say, feeling like an idiot. What a stupid thing to offer, really. Unlike her, he probably had plans for a Saturday night. Why would he want to spend that time with a friend? An awkward friend who'd just sucker punched him.

"No, that, that would be all right," Greg insisted.

"Oh," she said with a smile. "Oh, okay, good then. There's, um, a really good Italian place not too far. All right?"

"Yeah," he told her, returning the smile.

"Brilliant. Just, um, ten more minutes until this old thing finishes," she explained, gesturing to the mass spec. Tossing the paper towel into a rubbish bin, she started walking back towards to machine to check its status.

"If I pretend that you busted a rib, do I get tiramisu out of this?"

Molly glanced over her shoulder in time to catch his roguish grin before he looked down at his folded hands. She laughed, turning back to the mass spec.

"Maybe," she teased with a smirk.