Oh dear. It seems I haven't updated in… a very long time. Oops. Um, does three chapters make up for it? Just a little bit? Maybe? Well, enjoy!

The Eighth Hour

Thirty minutes of flat-out sprinting later, they're out of the park and heading for St. Bart's. John keeps an eye above as Sherlock scans the streets, and they're forced to make several inconvenient detours to avoid attracting too much attention.

John vaults neatly over the last dire escape, and glares at the smug consultant. "Sherlock, when you said 'We can lose them with a quick detour', I wasn't exactly expecting to spend the next fifteen minutes traversing rooftops."

Sherlock drops down beside him with more grace than anyone in a bedraggled Victorian suit should be able to muster. "You weren't?"

All right, so he was. But it's still his job to act disgruntled about this sort of thing, just to maintain the illusion that one of them is even slightly normal.

Three back alleyways and an out-of-the-way side door later, they're striding down the hallways of St. Bart's and throwing open the morgue doors. …

Up until that moment, Molly had been having a rather dull day. Heart failure, asphyxiation, suicide, send that one through the cremator with some rock salt, stab wound, make sure that one stays dead (the scalpel would need replacing), another stab wound…

Then Sherlock Holmes and John Watson burst in, looking as if they'd been dragged backwards through time and sideways through a gorse bush. Or nine.

But after John's explained their situation and forced Sherlock to promise that he'll ask the next time he wants to borrow a few feet, she's more than happy to help. The clothes are the first problem- luckily, they've both got another set in her bottom desk drawer (a precaution ever since the Exploding Larynx Incident).

Even though John's a little bit miffed about his missing jumper.

After all of that's sorted, there's a brief discussion about how they're going to stay out of trouble for the next several hours. But it's only when Molly remembers that a bunch of in-training Scotland Yard hopefuls will be at St. Bart's for a lecture on injury-based evidence that Sherlock shows any signs of interest.

John, in the poor students' best interest, tries to nip that in the bud.

"Absolutely not."

"But John! Think of the opportunity we have to ensure that the next generation of officers aren't a moronic as the last!"

"No way, Sherlock. The idea of you in a confined space with a hundred or so impressionable students doesn't bear thinking about."

"But John-"

"No."

"We have the chance to prevent the emergence of another agent as clueless as Anderson!"

Silence.

"I'm sure they would all benefit from some instruction on Emergency First Aid in Hazardous Situations!"

More silence.

"If you don't agree to help, I'll go in on my own, and you'll have no control over anything I decide to do."

Damnit.

John swears so violently that Molly blushes, and follows Sherlock out of the morgue.

I almost pity those students… but think of the educational opportunity!