CHAPTER SEVEN

"A walking boot and they've changed my painkillers," Sherlock relayed disinterestedly.

"That should make getting around easier, anyway," Mycroft pointed out.

"It's not enough to take on any cases though," continued to sulk.

"It will take a while," Mycroft sympathized. "You could always hire someone."

"To do my job for me?" Sherlock scoffed. "Then I'd be just like you."

Mycroft fought the urge to hit his brother for the last comment.

"Not to do everything. Just the parts you can't, some of the legwork. It's just an idea. You don't have to take it. You're clever when you want to be; think outside the box."

Mycroft must really want him to stay off the drugs is he was complimenting him now. Hiring someone was too boring though. And where would he even find someone he could get along with? Up at odd hours, sometimes not sleeping at all... someone who could just listen without interrupting continuously, but might occasionally give useful insight. Not to mention, someone who could put up with his multitude of odd habits and apparent ineptness at social situations. Unlikely. Besides, even if he could find such a person, he'd have to disguise it under some other guise, couldn't have Mycroft thinking he'd actually listened and taken his advice.

The car pulled up outside his Baker Street flat and the younger man disembarked, this time with some semblance of grace.

Sherlock made his way up the stairs, only stumbling once, and dropped onto the sofa in the sitting room, grateful the new painkillers did more to mask the pain of his broken ribs.

Hiring someone to do his job just wasn't an option. There was a reason the police came to him after all. Someone who could assist him and had some medical knowledge (and wasn't Anderson) could be useful however. He pondered the idea for a while, time ticking by at an unknown rate, not that it mattered. He had plenty of it. The idea of interviewing prospects sounded interminably dull though. Maybe he would just continue alone. It had always worked before.

He did need some more science equipment though. The current setup sprawled across the kitchen table was useful, but not extensive enough. He needed a lab. Perhaps he could find a way to access a school lab or... his thoughts trailed off briefly before a better idea struck him. Barts! There was a lab, undoubtedly better than he'd find in a local school, and better equipped to handle his work as well.

Come to think of it, he'd been wanting to continue his experiments on the properties of blood exposed to different environmental conditions. It was a hospital, surely they had some blood, better than having to use himself as a human pincushion again.

Yes. Definitely better. Didn't need another fainting episode.

Tomorrow he would make use of their lab, just had to figure out a way in. Mycroft could arrange something, or he could probably bribe someone. Or he could just act like he belonged. New guy no one knows, has limited medical knowledge and unorthodox ways of testing theories, with unlimited use of resources at all hours. What could possibly go wrong? Okay, admittedly his cover needed some work or he'd just as soon find himself escorted to Scotland Yard. But if it came to it, Mycroft could always handle any charges, not like he hadn't made them go away before.

Ӂ

"Oh," the young brunette startled as she walked back into the lab. "I didn't know you – anyone – would be in here," she stammered. She seemed to look around as if making sure she hadn't accidentally walked into the wrong room.

The man across the room continued to stare intently through the microscope, making tiny adjustments. Maybe he hadn't heard her?

"I need another microscope slide," he announced.

"In the drawer to your left," she answered without thought.

The man sat motionless for a full minute before finally reaching for the slides. It was a slight reach, but not enough he need to get up, yet Molly noticed a slightly pained expression cross his face as he did so.

"Sorry, I should've gotten them for you," she blurted out. He really was much closer, but she wasn't trying to cause him any pain or difficulty. At first glance, he seemed fine, nothing to hint at whatever physical pain he had, but with that big coat he could be hiding any of a myriad of injuries. "I didn't know you... anyway.. I could have gotten them. Sorry for rambling. I'm Molly."

"It's fine," the man murmured like he didn't completely agree with the words he'd uttered out of his own mouth.

After another moment of fiddling, he got up from his eat, gathered a couple small items and made to leave. Just before he left, a book laying out caught his eye, a smirk tugging at his lips. I'd like to borrow this book.. er, Molly."

"Uh, sure," she agreed.

He gave a slight nod and tucked the book under his arm. "The name's Sherlock Holmes. Afternoon," then he disappeared.