Sorry this chapter is so short. I'm focusing most of my efforts right now on How to Play a Game Called Murder so I can finish it up before seriously jumping on this one and Frigid Negotiations (the frozen!omegaverse!au.)
Molly sighed as she scrubbed her hands and arms to the elbows. Sherlock's behavior was bothering her. She was so confused by the brilliant, enigmatic man who shared her flat. Or rather, she shared his.
She had subtly tried to pry information out of the handsome DI who escorted her to the morgue, but he wouldn't crack.
"Sherlock Holmes is a great man. Maybe someday he'll be a good one as well," was all she got out of the tight-lipped older man.
Whatever the hell that means.
Her thoughts drifted back to the man who had woken her that morning. She knew he was hiding something from her. Something huge, but Molly had no idea what that could be.
Curiosity killed the cat, she warned herself before suddenly smiling. But satisfaction brought him back. Molly was determined that her curiosity towards her new employer would be satisfied one way or another. She pushed him to the back of her thoughts and focused on her surroundings.
She examined the room around her. It was stark and clinical, as expected of a room of that type. All the white hurt Molly's eyes but she guessed she had better get used to it if she wanted to be working in that environment for the foreseeable future. The metal of the tables was polished and cold and Molly ran a finger over the surface of one, relishing the coolness against her overheated skin. The lab coat was heavy and hot, and it was making her cheeks flush a shade of rosy red. She glanced over at the Detective Inspector, who was standing next to a scruffy man, watching him set up a small camera.
"Oi, Billy, how'd he rope you into doing this?" the silver-haired man questioned.
"Ah, you know. The boss needs all kinds of things done for him. This ain't the strangest by a long shot," replied the other, who Molly secretly thought looked like a bum. She pursed her lips, studying them, until he huffed in satisfaction and they both stepped away; one out the door with a mock salute, and the other, Lestrade, to stand next to Molly.
"Alright, Wiggins has got the camera all set up. Whenever you're ready, wheel out the body. I'll call Sherlock to make sure he's watching." He pulled out his phone, punching a speed dial number and holding it up to his ear.
"Yeah, Sherlock, oh hey John! I thought you were still traveling. Oh, ok, yeah is he there? Ok tell him we're ready." He hung up his phone and nodded to Molly. "Alright, he's watching. Just do an exam like you normally would and note everything out loud. I'll take pictures as we go and send them to him."
Molly took a deep breath and let it out.
No reason to be nervous. You're brilliant at this. Just pretend you're back in class.
She lifted her head up, her chin at a defiant angle, and smiled to herself.
Here's something you're more capable at than Sherlock Bloody Holmes.
With those words of encouragement, she practically skipped over to the drawer and removed the body.
Her eyes flitted over the man as she wheeled him to her station and her words poured out without conscious thought.
"Tall, broad build, multiple lacerations all along the torso centering on the neck area." She pulled the flesh apart with a gloved hand. "A serrated knife? No, more like claws. I don't know what kind of animal is large enough to tear a man apart like this though." She picked up her saw and got to work, disassembling the body, learning its secrets, all the while talking aloud to the camera and the silent Detective Inspector, who circled the body snapping photos with his phone at every interval.
Sherlock sat in front of his computer, hands steepled in front of his face, with his fingers occasionally rubbing across his full bottom lip. He narrowed his eyes, glancing back and forth between the screen and his phone, where pictures were popping up, one after another.
He had to admit, Molly Hooper was quite thorough in her examination of the victim. Of course, he already knew what the cause of death was, he was just letting her practice and maybe come to the right conclusion herself, though he doubted that so early on in the game. He was really hoping that she thought to get a dna sample from the cuts in the man's flesh. That would make his job quite a bit easier.
He grinned triumphantly when Molly suddenly stopped in the middle of weighing the liver to grab up a pair of tweezers and pluck a long, black hair from one of the cuts and put it in an evidence bag, which Lestrade took from her.
Good show, Molly.
He watched attentively as his assistant methodically performed her duties, not slipping up at all. He had to admit, she was very good at it. She would make a great pathologist one day.
If he let her go.
He shook that thought from his mind, knowing it wasn't good. He tried hard to shut down that part of his brain, to keep it locked away in a trunk, deep in an unused closet of his mind palace. He was disturbed by the fact that since he first saw his new assistant, standing on the doorstep outside his flat, that portion of his brain had been more active than it had in years. Being alone was what protected him and he wasn't about to give that up. Not when the last time he did had such dire consequences. Ones that still haunted him into the present day.
Sherlock opened his eyes just as Molly finished with the body and had begun to scrub out. He watched the way she moved, confident in her actions. After a moment, he shook himself and closed his computer. He was playing a dangerous game and for the first time, Sherlock wasn't sure what exactly winning meant.
