From the little research they could do on the internet, Molly and Sherlock found out that while pygmy goats could indeed be counted on to hold their urine indoors, the same could not be said for holding their stool. They soon that found out through experience as well. Although Molly made Sherlock take Fiona out hourly all night long and to sleep on the sofa where he could theoretically keep a eye on her, Molly found out come morning that Fiona had likely ruined her carpet and chewed on several of her curtains.

But even as annoyed as Molly was, she had to smile at the picture they made: Sherlock laying on the sofa with a sixty stone pygmy goat sleeping on top of him. She took a photo with her phone and sent it to John. He responded immediately.

John Watson: Oh dear lord, I thought he was joking when he said he was bringing back a pygmy goat. This is going up immediately on the blog.

Molly Hooper: You're going to have to find more paying cases. Sherlock is going to pay for the all the damages to my flat.

After a few more pleasant texts with John, she went to wake up the two sleeping beauties. "Sherlock, wake up. You did a crap job of keeping Fiona out of trouble last night."

Sherlock and Fiona both stirred and, when he saw the damage, he cringed.

"Should I just make out a cheque now?"

"Oh no, Sherlock, I think you need to learn your lesson and just writing out a cheque is not going to do it. You'll be going shopping with me this weekend."

"Oh please, anything but that. I'll pay double, triple."

"Oh no, you'll be looking at curtains and comforters and carpets until you go colour-blind. Now, just go take your new girlfriend for a walk so we can get to St. Bart's and run some tests on her. I think I may know a veterinarian that might be able to assist."

Molly and Sherlock earned quite a few double-takes walking a pygmy goat from Molly's flat to St. Bart's. Molly had indeed been able to get Dr. Abigail Lynley, a consulting veterinarian from the London Zoo, help her figure out what tests should be done on Fiona and what to look for. Molly didn't even know what constituted a fever in a pygmy goat. What was Sherlock thinking, having her do this examination? But, for all Sherlock's vaunted intellectual capabilities, she knew this was a purely emotional decision on his part.

Half way through the day of testing, interrupted frequently by Molly having to attend to her other duties supervising autopsies done by others, Dr. Lynley pulled Molly aside away from Sherlock to tell the pathologist what she already knew.

"There's only so much we can find out with these tests, you know that right?" Molly nodded sadly, knowing where Dr. Lynley was heading. "If the issue is still in doubt after we get these results back, there's only one way to continue."

"A necropsy, I know." Molly looked at Sherlock, attending, as he had been all morning, to Fiona. Please, Molly thought, let these tests show something.

But soon developments in the case deemed the worst case scenario for Fiona entirely unnecessary.

Molly and Dr. Lynley were looking at the results of some bloodwork when DI Lestrade walked into the lab, looking annoyed at Sherlock, a look that he had had plenty of practice perfecting over the years.

"Well, Sherlock, all morning I've had to listen to several members of the Yorkshire constabulary screaming bloody murder at me, telling me that the consulting detective that I recommended to them absconded with a key piece of evidence from a potential crime scene." He pointed to Fiona, standing oblivious next to Sherlock. "At least you could have the decency to try and hide her rather than flaunt it."

"We are endeavoring to find out why Fiona here—"

"Fiona?" Lestrade laughed humorlessly.

"—why Fiona here is perfectly fine while the others on the farm have . . . "

"You're not endeavoring nothing," Lestrade barked at Sherlock.

"Pardon me? That was a double-negative, so I'm not sure what . . . "

"You're not doing anything with her. She's coming with me and the fellas I have standing outside the lab, so if you were planning to make a run with her, you should know that they have my permission to shoot you." Sherlock straightened up, indignant. "Besides," Lestrade continued, "there's no need for it anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"The case has been solved this morning. They got a confession from a farm hand. He went up to the farm a few nights ago, wanting to get back pay he thought they owed him. He quarreled with the husband, pulled a large syringe filled with air out and emptied it into his veins. Then he went through the farm and did the same to all the animals. Then the wife came home from shopping and he did her. She came home right as he was about to come to the goat. Once he did off the wife, he left, forgetting all about Fiona here. He had a long history of violence and mental illness. So, you see, the case is closed."

"So, what happens to her now?" Sherlock asked, looking down at the goat.

"Everything the couple owned goes to their son, who lives here in London. We've got orders to pick her up and deliver her to a livestock auction house in Essex, which, by the way, will take up all of my day, thank you very much Sherlock."

"Auctioned off like chattel?"

"She is chattel, Sherlock," Lestrade reminded him.

Molly hurried over to Sherlock's side. "Sherlock, she's not going to be killed and dissected. You prevented that."

Sherlock nodded but asked Lestrade, "How much do they want for her?"

"Sherlock," said Molly gently, seeing the direction of his mind, "we can't keep her in a flat in London. That's not the life for a pygmy goat, is it Dr. Lynley?"

"Goats love to run around freely, Mr. Holmes. A country home with a large park might suit, but a small flat in the center of the city? It's not much of a life for her."

"No, no, I suppose not," Sherlock agreed sadly. Everyone stood around awkwardly for a few seconds. Then Sherlock asked Lestrade, "Can I walk her one more time before I hand her over?" Lestrade looked dubious, but Sherlock added, "Your men can come and watch, guns drawn if need be." Molly gave Lestrade a pleading look on Sherlock's behalf.

"Fine," Lestrade relented, "you can have 15 minutes, then I'm ordering them to fire at will." Sherlock nodded appreciatively and took Fiona out for one last walk.

"Thank you, Greg," Molly said after the door closed behind Sherlock.

"Yeah, did you see the look on his face? It's like I just drowned his puppy." Molly winced at Lestrade's metaphor, remembering the way Sherlock had turned the memory of his childhood best friend into the memory of having a dog and then having that friend/imaginary dog drowned by his sister. Lestrade didn't know the whole story, only pieces, so she didn't blame him for using such an awful analogy. But now Molly felt even worse for Sherlock, remembering the extent to which things and people he loved so often brought him pain.

"Well, I'll be off then, since nothing more is needed of me here," Dr. Lynley said, gathering her things to leave.

At the same time, Lestrade also seemed poised to leave the lab. "I'll wait for Sherlock and that damn goat downstairs. Good to see you as always Molly."

"Wait!" Molly said loudly. Lestrade and Dr. Lynley both turned to look at her.

"Are you talking to her or me? Lestrade asked.

"Both of you."