On Saturday, Molly managed to get out of the hotel, but with an officer to escort her. She had to go to Bart's to pick up files to prepare for her meeting on Monday to deliver her expert opinion. She also had to pick up something to wear. She had some decent things in her flat. It was weird to visit her flat again, with everything tossed around like it was. The door lock was fixed, though, which was comforting. She noted the extra deadbolts.

She would be so glad when this was over. She had never experienced anything like this. The blatant intimidation tactics to silence the witnesses were doing the job of stressing her out, but she would do her best to carry on with fortitude and dignity. She knew that the person on trial was some sort of crime boss person who had ordered the hits she had autopsied. The killer was yet at large. Which was an incredibly creepy feeling.

Her only role was to serve as an expert witness and present her opinion on the forensic evidence. She would not actually attend the trial; rather it was customary that she would attend a meeting with both sides before the trial. She was obligated to present the evidence both for and against the possibility that two homicides, aka the hits, were related. She had done this before; it was part of the job of a forensic pathologist. She didn't just do autopsies. She also went over cases with police officers and families to explain the details to them, which is how she met Greg Lestrade in the first place.

That evening, in her hotel room, she pored over the files. Looked at the pictures and she went over her prepared statements again. The pictures of the two separate cases before her were hard to look at, despite her years of experience. There were some things you just never got used to. The throats had been slashed, in addition to other unspeakable things. This was always the hardest type of wound for her to deal with. It brought back memories of her little brother and how they had found him in a field, his own throat slashed. She remembered the photos in Timmy's files. The photos for the trials were very similar, causing even more creepy feelings to haunt her.

She was really unnerved to be in a position where she had to have security. If things weren't as screwed up as they were at the moment, and it was all her own doing, she might have been with Greg Lestrade right now. She would have shared her jittery fears with him, and he would have said something funny or kind to make her feel better. They might have talked about it over a beer at the pub, or maybe at Bart's when he swung by when he had a few minutes to spare, two cups of coffee in hand. Or, if she had been truly blessed, maybe at her flat, or his, lying with him on the couch, her head on his chest, him absently stroking her hair. She could feel a frustrated longing building deep within her, vying for her attention, pulling her away from the files.

Finally, she put the files aside early and slipped under the covers, turning off the light as Toby snuggled in beside her. She was as prepared as she could be for the meeting, and there was still tomorrow if she needed more time. She was so tired, but sleep did not come. She tossed and turned. Interspersed with the rather intimate thoughts of Greg Lestrade that plagued her, other things intruded. Gruesome photos from the trial would not leave her head. It was unusual for her to feel this way; she was not prone to night terrors. Every footstep in the hallway made her tense up as she imagined someone breaking into the room.

She gave in and grabbed her phone from the night stand. She scrolled through her messages and e-mail. Nothing. Not from the person she wanted to hear from, anyway. She nibbled on her lip. She was probably feeling a little needy and overly dramatic. She wanted to reach out to the one person who she wanted most to help her through this. In the light of day she would probably regret she had sent it. But right now, she needed this. Needed him to tell her everything would be all right. She sent the text.

A few minutes went by with no response. She sighed, disappointed, settled down further under the covers, but still held her phone tightly. Just as she was starting to drift off again, it buzzed and a text briefly illuminated her hand with a small pool of light. She smiled, and held the phone close to her chest, finally feeling safe.