This has been lurking in my head for a little bit. The first half of the chapter takes place sometime during one of the two series and the second half takes place post series two. Enjoy!


It wasn't often that Sherlock had to do without Molly's help at Bart's. He could walk in there any day and she'd be there, ready to let him use the lab or take home some eyeballs or examine a body. She was reliable, dependable, and predictable. Any times where she deviated from this routine, Sherlock was thrown off balance as well. She didn't get sick often, but when she did, Sherlock would be thoroughly annoyed. John Watson was witness to this behavior almost a year after moving in with the consulting detective. They came back from Bart's without access to the lab, without being allowed to see a body, and without those fingers that Sherlock wanted to experiment with. John sat down in a chair and picked up the paper, trying to ignore Sherlock's frustrated mumblings.

"Who gave that man a medical degree?" he growled.

"Stop complaining," John sighed. "He's only temporary. Besides, I'm more curious as to why Molly wasn't in. I hope she didn't come down with something. She was looking a bit peaky last time I saw her."

Sherlock stopped pacing. "You're right," he breathed. "It's a rare occasion, but you are absolutely right." He brought out his cell phone and dialed a number. That managed to get John's attention. Sherlock always texted and would only call under special circumstances.

"Who are you calling?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him. "You're not seriously calling her right now, are you? I just said she might be out sick! If she is, you should give her some peace." Sherlock waved at him to be quiet.

"Hello?" Molly's voice cracked at the other end of the line.

"Where are you?" Sherlock demanded.

"I'm at home," Molly said weakly from the other end of the line.

"Why?"

"Because I'm sick you berk! Normal people take a day off when they're sick."

Sherlock huffed. "So why does that mean you can't come in to work? Who are you worrying about getting sick? All of your patients are dead!"

"Sherlock!" John admonished. Sherlock glared at him.

"Your temporary replacement decided to be exceptionally difficult and overrule the permission that I was given years ago to use the lab!" Sherlock complained. "Everything I have become accustomed to at Bart's has been taken away in a single day. I am working on a case and that daft man at Bart's is not cooperating!"

There was a pause at the other end of the line. "So…you're calling me because someone isn't playing nice with you?" Molly joked. Sherlock frowned, looking dangerously close to pouting. "Look, Sherlock, if I get some rest and feel better I'll be back at Bart's in two days. Maybe three or four."

Sherlock's expression changed from pouty to alarmed in the blink of an eye. "You've never been out sick that long from work before. Even though your previous absences have set me back in my work, I've always relied on you being a remarkably quick healer and getting back to Bart's."

Molly groaned. "Well I have a fever, body aches, and every so often I have to vomit. All I need is to rest and I'll be back at Bart's in no time. I'll see about calling Bart's later and telling whoever is filling in for me to ease up on you. What was his name?"

"He wouldn't tell me his name," Sherlock scowled. "Kept on insisting I call him Doctor! Nothing else, just Doctor." Molly laughed at the other end of the line. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," she lied. "I'm hanging up now. Good bye, Sherlock."

"But-" The line went dead. Sherlock tossed the phone aside, annoyed. Then picked up a pencil and a pad of paper and began writing rapidly.

"What are you doing?" John asked warily.

"Writing down instructions," Sherlock replied. "You are so very bad at remembering things unless they are written down or you have photographic evidence."

John put aside the newspaper. "I'm sorry? Instructions for what exactly?" Sherlock ignored him.

"I don't trust Molly's diagnosis of herself," he murmured. "She specializes in the dead, not the living. She has never been this sick before." He met John's questioning gaze briefly before handing over the paper to him. "Molly's address, her symptoms, and suggested ways to help her recover more quickly. I included her mobile number as well so you can text her and let her know that you're on your way to check up on her."

John shook his head. "Sherlock, no. I am not Molly's doctor."

"You can be her doctor for the time being," Sherlock said dismissively. He brought out his violin and began carefully tuning it.

"If Molly told you she'd be back on her feet in no time, then I trust her opinion over yours. I'm not checking up on her," John decided.

Sherlock scowled. "As I said before, Molly specializes in the dead, not treating illnesses."

"She still went to medical school, same as me!" John pointed out exasperated. "Molly will be fine, Sherlock. I'm not going over there." He picked up the newspaper again, wanting to end the conversation.

Sherlock crossed the room over to John and pointed his violin bow threateningly in his face. "Make. Her. Better," Sherlock threatened.

"Honestly, Sherlock, could you be any more of a prat?" John snapped. "You treat the girl terribly, make her run around in circles to help you on cases, she bends the rules of the hospital for you all the time and she still puts up with you. Now you're trying to force her into good health again and for what? For lab access and body parts? Leave her alone, Sherlock." It was a tense minute as the two men glared at each other. Finally, Sherlock put his violin away again and stalked off to his room, slamming the door.

"What a child," John muttered. True to her word, Molly was back at Bart's within the next few days and Sherlock could pick up his work again. The only thing that changed was Molly promising to text next time she was going to be out sick and Sherlock promising to just leave her alone and let her recover.


Molly hated being sick. She felt useless whenever she came down with something. All she could do was lie down in bed, sip tea, and, if her head wasn't pounding, watching some movies on her laptop. The stupid sunlight was making her head hurt worse today and had to block it out with a pillow over her head. Her eyes cracked open when she heard the door to the bedroom open.

"If you try and make me drink more tea, they will never find the body," she croaked. "I'm getting bloody sick of tea."

"And if you continue talking, you won't be able to defend yourself in court when they do find the body," Sherlock warned. He lifted the pillow off of her head. Molly glared, Sherlock smiled.

"Besides, I didn't bring tea this time," he said, gesturing to what he had placed on the bedside table: a bowl of steaming soup, a glass of water, and some of her antibiotic medicine.

"Soup?" Molly said, voice cracking. She pushed herself up into a sitting position weakly. "You can't cook. At all."

"Mrs. Hudson helped," Sherlock admitted. "The idea was entirely my own, though. Thought of it shortly after the last time I brought you tea and you hit me over the head with your pillow."

Molly smiled a little and picked up the bowl of soup. It certainly looked like it had been prepared well enough. She experimentally tried a small spoonful with Sherlock watching her carefully, gauging her reaction. Molly nodded approvingly and Sherlock visibly relaxed. "How's the case going?"

"Solved," Sherlock answered. He kicked off his shoes and sat down on his side of the bed, picking up the newspaper. "The butler did it."

Molly set the soup back down and then swallowed the pill Sherlock had left for her. "Sorry I wasn't able to help you out on the case. I always pick the bloody worst times to get sick. If I could just-" Molly was silenced by Sherlock's finger on her lips.

"As I've said before, if you keep talking, you're going to lose your voice." He slowly began to remove his finger. "At this rate, you're starting to sound like you've been smoking for fifty years. A bit like my grandmother, actually." Molly leaned forward and bit his finger, hard enough to get the point across.

"What was that for?" Sherlock demanded. Molly picked up her bowl of soup again.

"Deduce." Nearly half the bowl was gone before Sherlock spoke again.

"I have trouble deducing you," he admitted. "Especially when you do irrational things like bite my finger. I'm lucky you are on antibiotics, otherwise I'd soon be falling ill and you'd be the one bringing me soup."

Molly rolled her eyes. "You do not, under any circumstances, compare your girlfriend to your grandmother. While we're on the subject, never compare me to your mother, either." She brought the spoon up to her mouth, then paused. "You were the one who got me sick, you clot! Why are you complaining?"

"I'm not." He pressed a quick peck to her cheek. "Take all the time you need to recover. There is no need for you to rush back to Bart's before you are ready."

Molly smiled. "That's a nice change."


Dr. Who reference is obvious. I wasn't going to show these two as a couple for a while, but I couldn't resist. Originally, this was going to be a oneshot of Molly going on vacation and Sherlock having to deal with an annoying replacement. Molly's dislike of tea is based on the time I had bronchitis and my parents kept bringing me bottles of water. Yes, I got sick of water.

Sherlock does not like it when his pathologist is sick. And John has finally made an appearance. Please review.