"He was found in his sitting room this morning. He'd been alone all night. The doors were all locked from the inside. A window was open, but it's a twenty-foot drop and the grounds underneath were undisturbed." DI Lestrade flipped through the police report of the murder scene.
"Who is he?" John asked as he inspected the corpse's right hand.
Lestrade rattled off the details of the file in his hand. "The Honourable Ronald Adair. British High Commissioner to Australia. Son of an Earl."
"A robbery?" John suggested.
Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing appears to have been stolen."
"Any known enemies? Rivalries?" John asked.
"None so far. He was well-respected, likeable..."
An acidic baritone broke in. "Someone liked him enough to kill him instantly with a single gunshot wound to the head. A kindness. Wasn't personal. Purely business." Sherlock crouched near the body, turning the head back and forth to inspect the wound. He didn't look at Lestrade to ask, "And the murder weapon?"
"Missing."
"Thought so." Their subsequent silence prompted Sherlock look up at both of them. Both men stood expectantly, waiting for Sherlock to fill them in.
The detective rose and pointed to the bullet hole in the victim's head. "This man was killed by a revolver bullet, but the wound is too large and too deep for the bullet to have been fired from a revolver. It had to have come from a modified rifle to make this pattern and to cross the distance through the window. "
"Where would someone get a modified weapon like that?" Lestrade shouted incredulously.
"Where indeed? A criminal network, perhaps? John, we need..."
Molly drew her attention away from the three men examining the corpse that had arrived in the morgue not forty minutes ago. Tomorrow was her last day at Bart's and she had far too many tasks to do to allow herself to be fawning over Sherlock.
It had been two days since Sherlock had visited her flat. They hadn't said anything else to each other after he pulled her close for a cuddle. She had dozed on and off all night, enjoying his attentions. Sherlock hadn't been able to get enough. Had never stopped touching her. He even instigated a third round of sex that had been slow and gentle. Molly shied away from considering it romantic. Sherlock had just been considerate that she might be sore after having been so intense earlier.
Molly hadn't been surprised to wake the next morning and find Sherlock gone without a word. She wasn't offended, but was in fact relieved. There wasn't going to be confessions of love or tearful goodbyes so she was glad to be spared what could only be an awkward morning after.
With two days to process what happened, Molly still felt conflicted, but much of her inner turmoil had been reconciled. She was relieved that for Sherlock, it hadn't been merely a sexual release or worse, a brief lapse in judgment. Thinking back on their past interactions and his passion that night, she had no doubt in her mind that he did care about her in his own way. They had shared much more than their bodies. It wasn't love, but it something. Something special.
Molly had always anticipated that her crush would go no where, would remain harmless. Though she was certain Sherlock wasn't interested, she now was forced to think of the realities of him being a suitable partner. Even if her circumstances remained the same, Molly was experienced enough to know a romantic relationship would be out of the question. As strong as her attraction to him, she had always known Sherlock was not boyfriend material. That's probably what made him so devastatingly attractive.
Though he was gorgeous and brilliant, Sherlock had few other qualities that would make him a good partner. He was the most volatile man she had ever met. His arrogance and narcissism knew no bounds. He was fickle, had little regard for others, and was down-right childish at times. Sherlock was often thoughtlessly cruel. Any woman with half a brain that hadn't been sucked in by his beautiful face and dramatic manner would run like hell.
Still, Sherlock was much more generous and creative in bed then she ever imagined. Her skin tingled every time she thought about how good they had been together, so unrestrained. They had been glorious.
Ultimately, she was unremorseful. In fact, she was gratified to have had a few hours of honesty and vulnerability that Sherlock never shared with anyone.
Honestly, she hadn't expected to see Sherlock again. The pathologist had known the minute she saw that corpse that he would come. Even prepared for it, she felt her insides flutter when the detective sailed into the morgue with John and Greg trailing behind him. Sherlock gave nothing away as she directed them to the cadaver. She congratulated herself on remaining cool and professional. And not gawking.
Sherlock was marvellous when intent on a case.
Molly reluctantly dragged herself to the corridor. She couldn't help but startle as she walked past her office, the Autopsy Surgeon's room.
Well, that was fast!
The new specialist registrar, Brian Whitecomb, had already made himself at home. She'd just finished packing up her personal belonging that morning!
It was irrational to be irked that he was already settled in an office that she had voluntarily vacated, but really?
Molly sighed. Truth be told, she was just idling time. All her duties and authorizations had already been transitioned to the new pathologist. Her last autopsy had been completed that very afternoon. She'd always kept her records meticulously up-to-date, so there wasn't much to wrap up. With only an hour left of her shift, her only responsibility was to look busy.
Tomorrow would be her exit interview and a dreadful goodbye luncheon. And an assortment of final administrative tasks including changing her voicemail and creating an automatic-response email. She'd actually wept a bit while drafting the mass email she would send tomorrow to announce her departure and identify the new contact person.
She rounded the corner to enter the clinical lab. She sat at the bench to start preparing samples for storage in the biospecimen bank.
Good God, why did this feel so bizarre? So awful? Why the guilt about leaving a job for a promotion? She was supposed to feel excited, celebratory. Instead she felt melancholy at times.
Because, the pathologist told herself, she treasured the connections she made with colleagues and felt she was abandoning her family, her team. She had been at Bart's over seven years. She was leaving a comfortable, familiar environment for something bigger and unknown.
Of course there would be adjustments but she would make new friends and new colleagues. In time. Though she was much improved, building connections with new people didn't come easy to her. She was naturally introverted. She could be socially awkward. And couldn't tell a joke to save her life.
She sighed again. Too late to go back now!
Her thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock, John, and Greg entering the lab. Sherlock proceeded immediately to his microscope while John and Greg made a bee-line for her.
Molly set down her slides, removed her gloves, and stood to greet them. John took Molly's hands in hers and squeezed warmly. Molly forced a weak smile. There was an awkward silence.
Christ, goodbyes are terrible!
"So, when do you start?" John asked.
"In three weeks." Molly replied.
"Which hospital is it again?" Lestrade shuffled on his feet, picking up one of the files that Molly had just signed off on.
"RLUH – Royal Liverpool University." Molly said.
"The largest, busiest hospital in Merseyside and Cheshire." John boasted.
Lestrade whistled. "Fantastic. Hopefully, they are ready for you."
Molly blushed. She would indeed begin her new position as Consultant Surgeon next month. Though she was saddened to be moving four hours away to Northwest England, it was a dream to be hired on as a senior surgeon for one of the most prestigious teaching and research hospitals in the U.K.
Competition for Consultant positions in Orthopaedics was fierce with only 55 occupancies in all of the U.K. last year. Knowing she wasn't an ideal candidate with her lack of effortless social graces, she credited her extra efforts in achieving substantial publications for tipping the scale in her favour. She also had glowing recommendations. Connections with the famous Sherlock Holmes hadn't hurt either.
She would be accepting considerably more duties and liabilities by being ultimately responsible for all the patients referred to her ward. She would lead a team of Specialty Registrars and Foundation Doctors in addition to spending approximately forty percent of her time in surgery.
Molly's mind scrambled, trying to think of something to say to minimize the uncomfortable silence as Lestrade tossed her file back onto bench.
"What is the rationale for not addressing surgeons as doctors, again?" He wondered.
"Snobbery." Molly grinned.
John chortled before explaining, "Until the mid-19th century, surgeons usually served on apprentice to a surgeon as opposed to going to university to obtain a medical degree."
"Without a medical degree, surgeons couldn't use the title 'Doctor.'" Molly supplied.
John's smile was mischievous as he continued. "Surgeons were considered craftsman and often doubled as barbers or other tradesmen. They were the lowest in the pecking order."
Lestrade interrupted, perplexed. "But physicians and surgeons all have medical degrees now."
"Right, but after a few hundred years of scorn and contempt between physicians and surgeons and being denied access to our exclusive club, the ultimately rejected the title 'Doctor.' Basically told us to piss off." John said.
Molly tried to explain it more diplomatically. "We stuck with the tradition even though surgery rose from the bottom of the hierarchy to the top. The title Mister and Miss ceased to be a put-down and a way of distinguishing ourselves from other doctors."
"So, inverse snobbery." Lestrade concluded.
"Yes." Molly admitted with a laugh.
"But you did go by the title 'Doctor" at one point?" Lestrade asked.
"Yes, when Molly graduated medical school, she was 'Doctor Hooper'. When she passed her surgical exam for the Royal College and became Bart's surgical specialist registrar, she graduated to Miss again." John clarified.
"Its not like that in other countries—." Lestrade started.
"God, no. Its pretty much exclusive to the U.K." Molly said.
John laughed again. "No one would be daft enough to follow suit."
"And foreigners think that the British have no sense of humour." Molly quipped.
"We possess a keen sense of the ridiculous." Lestrade agreed.
John turned to see Sherlock flying out of the lab.
"Selfish git!" John muttered with a sigh, embarrassed that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to say goodbye to her.
"No, no. Goodbyes aren't his thing." Molly joked.
John and Lestrade flinched, suddenly uncomfortable. Molly winced too, her jest falling flat. Ugh, such an Idiot!
John recovered first and embraced Molly, congratulating her and offering her his best wishes. Molly hugged Lestrade, promising that she would get in touch when she visited London. Her eyes watered despite her best efforts. She gently waved as they left the lab to chase Sherlock down.
Molly sighed in relief, grateful there wasn't going to be any uncomfortable confrontations with Sherlock. Prior to the Fall, she had felt inept enough in his presence before having kissed and touched every inch of his body! The very last thing she needed was to revert back to her old, nervous mannerisms.
Would he be insulted if she told him he was less intimidating when naked? Undoubtedly.
The pathologist glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes to go.
Molly had thought she would have to be dragged out of the hospital on her last day, but now she was suddenly anxious to leave. Her place there was gone and she was already tired of the congratulations, goodbyes, and tears.
She composed herself while packing up the slides and tools. She entered the adjoining instrument room and set the tools at the bench. The room was no more than 8x10 storage space with several rows of shelving and bench that contained a utility sink. The room was a bit cluttered with boxes to the ceiling holding gowns, gloves, boots, face shields, and other numbered instruments.
Molly carefully washed the equipment she had been using and circulated around the shelves, putting them away. She had returned the slides to their place at the end of the aisle when she turned and collided into six feet of tall, dark, and cranky.
The pathologist shrieked Sherlock's name as he gripped her forearms, preventing Molly from falling to the floor. She hadn't heard anyone come in. Molly's palm flew to her chest.
Yup, still beating.
"I require 25 litres of alkane wax or an appropriate substitution." He announced in his imperious baritone. "I've confiscated approximately 21 litres. Suggestions for drumming up another four?"
Relief flowed through her. Good to see that some things never change. He was completely fixated on the case. There would be no weirdness here. She could do this.
Alkane wax? What on earth did he need that much for? Not going there.
"You took all from the autopsy and post-mortem rooms, the clinical lab, and store II?"
He nodded briskly as Molly thought frantically. The morgue would have the largest quantity as it was used to prep specimens for histology, nitrate tests, and to impregnate tissue prior to sectioning thin samples. But other departments would possibly stock it. She thought about all of its medical uses.
"Have you tried—."
"Haematology, Microbiology, Orthopaedics, and Dental." Sherlock finished dourly.
Molly paused thoughtfully. "Podiatry?" She suggested.
"Paraffin foot baths. Of course!" He shook his head, exasperated with himself.
Molly grinned. "The clinic closes in 90 minutes." She informed him.
What felt like a minute passed. Maybe two. Sherlock still held her arms, not moving to leave.
Molly noticed his appearance then. His scarf was wrapped around his neck but his gloves were off and his coat open, revealing a pale grey shirt under his suit. Her eyes widened as she took note of his aristocratic face.
Oh, God. There was a bruise on his jaw from when she had bit him during their first encounter! She hadn't broken the skin but the mark was distinct. She didn't know whether to be horrified or pleased that he was hunting down London's most dangerous criminals with a love bite on his face. A love bite that she had given him.
Stop drooling, Molly!
A furious blush tinted her cheeks as she became acutely aware of Sherlock's proximity and the heat radiating off of his body. The silence between them was suffocating. She stepped back, out of his grasp and forced herself to look him in the eyes neutrally. His expression was frosty.
"Is there anything else you need?" She asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
Sherlock just stared, studying her. Observing her. He was impassive, unreadable. When Sherlock finally spoke, her heart sank.
"Molly, I can't help but sense that a discussion is in order." Sherlock's tone was stern and his expression indifferent.
Damn! She had misread him. Was he going to besiege her with recriminations?
"We don't have to. I'm alright." She replied brightly, wanting to give him an out. "You and me, we are alright."
Molly wanted to skirt past him but Sherlock's body was blocking her way. She felt cowardly, but couldn't look at him as she asked, "Aren't we?"
Sherlock sighed. His words were cautious. "I - I hadn't intended on complicating things for you, Molly."
That hadn't been what she expected him to say. She paused to process his words before looking up at him.
Complicated? They had gone to bed together. Once. It had been incredible, but surely he didn't think that she expected a marriage proposal. He'd made his position clear when he sneaked out.
"Its not complicated, Sherlock. Well, nothing more so than usual." She smiled tightly, trying to keep the conversation light.
"Good. Good." He stepped aside but his forehead was pulled together in a frown now.
Molly moved past him to the bench. The unbearable silence was worsened as she clattered about rinsing the sink and the workspace, taking in his frustrated expression. Molly resisted a mad impulse to giggle nervously as Sherlock towered over her, watching. Obviously, he wasn't going to let it be.
Since when would he be at a loss for words? What did he want from her?
No point guessing.
Molly took a deep breath before turning to him and diving in wearily. "What 's wrong, Sherlock?"
"I lack a frame of reference for an appropriate interaction after a sexual encounter." He paused and clarified, "With someone I have high regards for."
Only Sherlock could sound haughty while confessing that he was out of his depth. He'd never had the "morning-after" conversation? Did that mean he had never had a relationship? Ever?
He continued. "It is unlike you to keep me at a distance."
Now she was truly bewildered. Had he expected her to become insipid and needy? Annoyance was beginning to simmer, but she tamped it down knowing any sign of defensiveness would just make him nasty.
Sherlock tilted his head and pursed his lips, irritated that Molly wasn't saying anything and didn't understand what he was getting at.
Suddenly, Sherlock's façade dropped away, revealing a level of discomfort she rarely saw. He looked away, unable to meet her eyes. He swallowed. "Was I—Have I hurt you?" He said at last.
"No. No! It was amazing, um, you were—." Molly blurted until she caught his frustrated yet flattered expression and realized that wasn't what he was asking her.
Sherlock wanted to know that hadn't damaged their friendship by leading her on to expect a romantic relationship. Molly's defensiveness evaporated immediately. He was truly in uncharted territory. She decided to take pity on him.
Molly breathed easier as she reassured him. "I'm not expecting anything of you."
Sherlock remained rigid as he pressed. "It was never my intention to cause you any harm."
Molly screwed up her courage to step closer and tentatively take his hand, not knowing if he would accept her touch. Her fears were alleviated when Sherlock immediately squeezed back and relaxed his stance. Molly understood now. He needed to know that he hadn't erred. That it wasn't a mistake. What their intimacy had really had meant to her.
Her stomach was in knots as she choose her next words with care. "Accepting that a relationship is not feasible hurts, but not as much as the perception of unreciprocated affection."
Sherlock blinked. Then his eyes went wide in comprehension. He looked stunned.
Molly knew she was setting herself up, but she had to know. "I don't regret it. Do you?" She braced herself, praying that he wouldn't shatter her heart.
Sherlock answered her with a tight embrace, running his hands up her back and then through her ponytail.
Oh, thank God he wasn't going to pretend it didn't happen.
"No." He said firmly. "Only waiting so long."
Molly shook her head, dismissing his lie. "This only happened because I'm leaving. You never would have come to me otherwise."
He didn't deny it, grasping her shoulders, willing her to understand. "I lead a dangerous life. My enemies wouldn't hesitate to use you to strike at me."
Molly nodded. "That's absolutely a factor."
Sherlock looked at her questioningly. Molly sighed. There was no help for it. Did he really not know or did he want to avoid hurting her feelings by stating the obvious out loud? She kept her voice placid.
"You don't want a relationship with me. Or anyone. You aren't ready. You might never be."
Sherlock broke away, suddenly defensive. His tone was mocking. "Surely, you of all people believe that love can conquer all."
Molly didn't take his bait and calmly explained, "No, love is an important prerequisite, but not what makes a relationship work. And we both know that you can't love me. That's okay. We couldn't manage a healthy romantic relationship or an equal partnership."
Sherlock's brief anger gave way to confusion. "But we are friends. We do have a partnership."
"Friendship, yes. A partnership, no." Molly said delicately. "Prior to two days ago, its always been one-sided. Your cases, your activities, your schedule, your needs."
The detectives stiffened. "Catering to the emotional needs of others would put me at a distinct disadvantage." Then he winced and heaved a sigh. "I'm a selfish, uncompromising arsehole."
Molly reached out to touch him, to demonstrate her acceptance. "I can be just as uncompromising. I need more than you can give. I need love. And romance. I can't be ignored for days or weeks at a time. I want a family. I couldn't be happy to constantly worry that you won't come home." Her voice shook as her fingers grazed his shirt, over his bullet wound. "To wait for the one day you wouldn't."
He grasped her hand, holding it over his scar. "I know."
Molly's lashes fluttered shut. She took a deep breath before softly saying, "There isn't room for me in your life. I've been down that road before. People always fail when they try to make room themselves."
"I live a solitary life for a reason. As a sociopath I cannot—"
Molly tenderly took his face in her hands but her words were fierce, "You are not a sociopath. Sociopaths don't jump off buildings or face exiles to save their friends. Its your ambition, Sherlock. Its all consuming. And endless. It requires the sacrifice of everything else. But It makes you great at what you do. The best at what you do."
"I am sorry, Molly."
Tears brimmed her lashes as she stroked Sherlock's hair. "Don't be. I would never try to hold you back. I can be content knowing I meant something to you." She whispered.
"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock groaned as he pulled her closer. "You've always had a capacity of unconditional love and loyalty that I never understood and can never hope to find again. You're honesty and perceptiveness has always been invaluable to me. "
Molly giggled as she leaned into him. "Perceptive?! I've just now put all this together! You are a master at mixed signals, Sherlock Holmes!" She was giddy with relief. It was all out there. After years of tiptoeing, they finally had an understanding.
Standing on her toes, Molly pressed a soft, parting kiss to Sherlock's mouth. A strong, graceful hand curled around her shoulder, pulling her closer. Their lips moved together languidly until Molly shifted to break away. Surprise and arousal rolled through Molly when Sherlock tongue traced her bottom lip. Tenderness turned into urgency when Molly gasped, crumpling the wool of his coat under her fingers. Sherlock cupped her face, deepening the kiss, unwilling to let her go. Molly's sadness morphed into a familiar ache of lust when he backed her into the shelving unit, pinning her with his frame and running his hands over her body.
"Very mixed signals," Molly sighed.
Lips brushed her ear, "I've never been able to commit to a farewell."
Molly's choked laugh became a gasp as he grazed her neck with rough, open-mouthed kisses. Reckless hands trailed down his chest, unbuttoning his jacket. Sherlock plundered her mouth as he gripped her hips, rocking his groin into hers. Sighs and murmurs of pleasure echoed in the small room as they became desperate, hungry for more.
Molly whimpered, remembering all of the ways he had touched her. All the thing he had made her feel. Christ, she should stop Sherlock now. They were becoming more frantic with each passing second. Instead, Molly tugged his hair, forcing his head back so she could nip his ear.
Sherlock's mouth quirked. His voice was pure seduction when he asked, "I saw you took note the love bite you gave me earlier. How does it make you feel when you see it, Molly?"
Nails raked over his thin shirt. Sherlock snapped his head back in a gasp. She nuzzled his exposed throat and jaw, admitting, "Ashamed. Excited. Horny."
Sherlock tugged on the tie holding her ponytail, releasing her hair. Her brown tresses twisted in his fingers as he nibbled her lips.
"I find it arousing as well." Sherlock confessed hoarsely. He gave her a feral leer. "Might I see the ones I gave you?"
Molly's breathing hitched, her eyes flying open at his salacious request. This was quickly getting out of hand. She was at work for Godsake!
"The doors." She hissed.
"Locked."
"Camera."
"Disabled months ago." He assured her.
It was ridiculous that she was even considering this!
"Okay." She breathed. "Quickly." As if she could deny him anything right now. Not when he looked at her like that!
Sherlock stepped back to expeditiously unbutton her jumper. He exhaled as he peeled it open to reveal a light-blue lace bra. No one would know by the look on Sherlock's face, but it wasn't anything fancy. Relatively simple, but pretty.
Molly shivered as he traced the edges of her bra, plucking at the bow between her breasts. He moved close for an artful kiss and to slide his hands under her jumper. He leisurely explored her mouth with his tongue as he unclasped her bra, massaging her back with his fingers.
Distracting Molly with his lips, Sherlock manipulated the bra strap through the arm of her jumper. She didn't realize his trick until he pulled the second strap though.
A wicked smirk spread across the detectives face as he whipped the bra from her chest with a flourish. He stuffed the bra in his coat pocket before spotting something over her shoulder and steering her backwards.
Sherlock whirled her around to face a mirror conveniently next to the gowns and face shields. He pressed his fully-clothed body into her back, nuzzling the top of her head. Sherlock looked positively menacing, enveloped in his heavy Belstaff and looming over her exposed form. His eyes glittered as he possessively placed his hands under her breasts, on her rib cage. Molly's nipples hardened and her lashes fluttered half-closed as she took in the erotic sight.
There were indeed four light purple bruises on Molly's breasts from when Sherlock had roughly shagged her on the kitchen table two days prior. He drew a sharp breath, further incited by the evidence of his claim on her. The goose bumps on Molly's skin registered the coldness of the room, but she felt nothing but liquid heat.
Molly turned her head to meet him in a sloppy, frantic kiss. Her breathing rate synchronized with Sherlock's, matching the rise and fall of his chest behind her. Sherlock groaned as Molly stretched her arms over her head to clasp around the back of his neck, giving him a tantalizing view and unobstructed access to her breasts.
Molly's eyes turned back to the mirror so she could watch his stormy ones as she parroted his earlier question. "How do you feel when you see these lovely marks on my breasts, Sherlock? Knowing you put them there?"
"Pure. Masculine. Pride." He growled as he lightly touched the marks. "I think about the sounds you made when I gave you these. The sounds you made when I was inside you. I think about the various other ways of marking you as mine."
Molly quivered, feeling a tightness in her core and the dampness in her knickers. "I'd let you, you know."
Sherlock's eyes flashed as he gently kneaded her breasts. "You would? You would let me come here? Right here? Naughty girl." He purred.
Molly licked his neck with a cheeky smirk, "Yes, for you, anything."
Sherlock released a shattered breath as he fondled her. Molly gasped, arching her chest for more contact. Amazing such an aggressive, dangerous man could be so gentle. And how insanely hot it was when he wasn't...
Molly unclasped her fingers around his neck. She tangled one hand into his dark curls. Her other arm came down to reach behind and cup his erection. His cock strained against his trousers and her fingers.
She brushed a teasing kiss on the bruise on his jaw. "Do you look at this and think of me, Sherlock? All the things we did to each other?"
"I've not thought of anything else for days." Sherlock rasped.
Molly moaned, surging in his arms as he rolled her nipples with his fingers. "Do you like seeing these marks on your body, Molly?"
"Oh, yes. I think of you. They're proof." She panted, rubbing his erection more firmly in her fingers.
"Proof of what?" He urged, sliding a hand down her belly to pluck at the top of her trousers.
Molly hesitated. Sherlock drew his hands to her middle in a light embrace, not touching her until she answered.
"Oh! I - That I was yours. That I belonged to you. For one night." She whispered.
Sherlock groaned harshly in her hair. His voice was strangled when he commanded, "Be mine one more time, Molly. Let me pleasure you. One more time."
Molly nodded desperately as Sherlock went to unbutton her trousers. Pushing her closer to the wall, he directed her, "Lean and place your hands against the mirror."
She moved to obey Sherlock as his fingers slipped under her knickers when he suddenly pulled away and jumped back as if burnt.
Molly didn't need to ask to know that someone was coming. She frantically re-buttoned her jumper and pulled her lab coat over her chest to conceal her lack of a bra.
Sherlock's face was flushed and his lips swollen. He calmed his breathing, waiting with his hand on the door knob. At her nod, he opened it, to reveal Mike Stanford at the other side of the door.
"I'll let you know if there is anything else, Molly." He said casually while walking ahead, holding the door for her. He acknowledged Mike with a sharp nod.
Mike glanced at his watch. "Molly, isn't your shift over? Or are you going directly to the pub to meet us for drinks?"
Molly's voice was shaky as she replied, "No, I'm going to stop at my flat first. I'll see you in a few hours?"
"Very good." He nodded as he continued past her to the room they had just left.
Molly looked to find Sherlock, but he was already gone.
Thanks everyone for all the comments and follows! This chapter was un-beta'd so if there are any mistakes, they are my own. Just let me know and I'll fix them.
Forget anything I ever wrote about the length. I already wrote the end and some of the middle, but it just keeps getting away from me.
Probably not what everyone wanted to read, but please let me know your thoughts. Don't worry, some fluff is coming their way. Thanks!