Two weeks later, Molly wakes up with her alarm blaring in her ear and groans, rolling over and trying to smack the button to get it to stop. Once she successfully does so, she buries her face in her pillow once more before slowly getting up. Walking over to her shabby dresser, she pulls out a purple floral blouse and her khakis. Today is the day she begins working in Bart's morgue all on her own. Her nerves buzz with nervousness and excitement as she sheds her pajamas and steps into the lukewarm shower, letting the water run down her body, waking her up a bit more to face the day. Once finished, she pulls on her clothing and returns to her bedroom to slip on her shoes. She then brushes through her long brown hair and bites her lip; she's going to have to tame it better if she's going to be leaning over corpses, body parts, and blood. Walking to her mirror, she begins brushing through her hair, removing the tangles and then braiding, before twisting it into a braided bun. Biting her lip out of habit, she decides to put a little bit of mascara on. Afterall, she wants to look presentable to her higher ups if they come by to check up on her work.

While on the way to work, Molly passes by a little café. It has a glaring red and white sign that says "Speedy's". She has driven by this little place nearly every day for the past five or so years, and has never stopped in, despite being curious. Glancing at the clock in her small VW Beetle, Molly decides that she has just enough time to grab a coffee before she has to be in the morgue, and luckily there is a parking spot open.

Once parked, Molly makes small strides into the place, the warm, familiar atmosphere feeling cozy and welcoming, and the scent of warm pastries, muffins, and coffee swirls around her until it reaches her slightly upturned nose, making her smile. She walks up to the glass pastry case and the register and is greeted by a lively, but kind older woman in a bright purple skirt and long-sleeved blouse. There is a bit of flour on her sleeve cuffs.

"Good Morning to you, dear! What can I get you today?", the elderly woman chirps happily.

Molly grins and looks into the case, her mouth watering a bit, and she realizes she had forgotten to eat too. "I'll grab a medium coffee, cream and three sugars, please. Oh, and er...a blueberry muffin as well."

"Coming right up, love." The woman grabs a baggie and wraps up a muffin for her, then pours and prepares her coffee, placing a lid on it and handing it to her. Molly pays and thanks her.

"This is an amazing little bakery café you have got here Ms…", she trails off.

"Ms. Hudson. Thank you very much. It was always my passion, and I have many loyal customers. I do hope you enjoy your muffin and your coffee dear, and I hope to see you again soon."

"You're very welcome, Ms. Hudson. Thank you again. Good day." Molly nods politely to her and walks out, a bright smile across her face. Making a mental note to stop by the small business more often, Molly realizes that her life is changing for the better. In fact, this is the first day of the rest of her life. A half hour later, Molly pulls into the parking lot of Bart's Hospital and quickly eats her muffin in her car, then grabs her coffee and heads to the morgue. She hopes today will go well.

*Three Years Earlier, June 2005*

The hot May sun glares down on London, gifting it's people with cheerier moods and productive vibes. Richer families enjoy the day in the parks with their children, and middle and poorer class workers get busy at work for the day, and the elderly even go on slow walks, the sun warming their usually chilled bones. Everyone in London seems happy and light today. Well, everyone except one William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

Sherlock grunts in frustration as pain strikes his muscles and bones. He shifts his body a bit and opens his eyes a crack, harsh, uninviting (to him) sun immediately piercing his eyesight. Hissing, he groans and sits up, feeling the loud shuffle of newspapers and trash bags underneath him. The loudness of people walking and talking and yelling with disgusting glee finally reaches his ears and he attempts to unblur his bleary eyes, dazed and confused. Looking around, his vision is doubled for a few moments before clearing just enough to form one picture. That's when he notices that he is in an alleyway, on top of discarded recyclables, and there is a man standing over him. Oh, and he's yelling at him the way Mycroft does when he's in trouble with their parents.

"Hello!? Hello!? Kid, can you hear me? Do you know where you are? Can you breathe for me?"

Sherlock shields his eyes from the sun as he looks up and down at the man. [5'7, average build, in his early forties, brownish hair that is slowly turning grey, government job, professional, pretty good pay going by the long flowing coat and the brand new shiny black shoes he has; looks higher end]. Glancing toward the man's middle his deductions continue. [Nameplate (blurry at the moment, come back to it), one…two…concealed weapons, handcuffs on his waist, a shiny (ohh a badge, shit he's a coppa), holding some shiny container looking thing…]

"Hello!? Kid?" The man squats down and gently grabs Sherlock's chin, tilting his head up to look at his eyes.

"Heyyy...hands off!" Sherlock growls and pulls his face away.

"Oh, Thank God. How are you feeling? Probably terrible. Don't worry, I wasn't gonna let you die if I could help it."

"Die?" Sherlock thinks to himself, the memory of him injecting the heroin over and over, in the course of the last couple weeks coming back to mind, last night was the worst. He may have injected a bit too much. Shaking his head, Sherlock sits up, his head and muscles throbbing as looks closer at the can, his dark curls wild and untamed around his head.

"Naloxone...you-you...brought me back from an overdose, then."

"H-How do you know..."

"What Naloxone is? I'm a drug user, of course I know what it is. Naloxone, or in more general terms, Narcan. Used to bring drug users back from overdoses and possible death. People know of it, but it's not yet verified for police use yet. Not only do I know because I am a user, but I am also a graduate chemist believe it or not. So I suppose the question is, why are /you/ using it, when it hasn't been cleared for official use yet hm?"

"I-...I carry it because I know it works...from personal experience...and despite my job, if I can save a life, I will. Uhh…by the way, how /did/ you know I was a cop? I'm in plain clothes."

Sherlock pushes the right side of the man's coat back and squints at the small golden nameplate that was hidden more when he squatted. "Well Officer…Lestrade. I'm a genius with deduction skills. Laugh as you please, but it's true. I assume a family member is a drug user hm? Most likely. Not you if you're still on the force. Anyway, to answer your question, it was fairly easy to spot the crease where your gun is in your waistband, and where your baton is hidden on your other hip, not to mention the shine of your nameplate peeking out of your long coat, which, by the way it's way too hot to be wearing anyway, so clearly you're wearing it to conceal something. Plus the curve of your badge, poorly hidden on your hip next to your baton, your stance when you were standing over me, perfectly straight and professional, the way you kept your cool over a half dead drug user, the way you were even concerned, not to mention your hair…"

"My hair?"

"Yes. I estimate you can't be any older than say forty-two, yet your hair is already turning grey. Meaning you work at a high stress, fast paced job that depends on reputation. Put that together with everything I already deduced about you and police becomes quite simple to see. Plus, as a younger man if you weren't a dedicated officer of the law, you'd probably dye your hair but seeing as it's prematurely going grey and you are keeping it that way, I assume as in most police agencies grey hair is a sign of dignity, experience, and high morale, possibly a giveaway to a higher title as well. The stipulation about silver foxes and all that, how women love them. So…what are you then? Drug unit Sergeant?"

Lestrade gapes for a moment then clears his voice. "Erm…no. D-Detective. Detective Inspector, I mean. Just got the promotion. Also, I don't keep my hair grey for women, it's a sign of dignity as you said...plus, I'm married."

"Unhappily."

"What?"

"Unhappily married."

The Detective Inspector's eyes widen a bit. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Obvious. She cheated on you and probably more than once, you got upset, took your ring off, lost some weight just to stick it to her. How do I know that? Easy. Your ring is looser on your finger, there's a tan line where it used to sit comfortably if not a bit tight, meaning you had it on when you went on vacation with her, found out she was cheating shortly after and took it off, resulting in the tan line. Yet she roped you back in recently and you put it back on only to find that it is now a bit loose due to your recent weight loss."

"How the hell could you know about our vacation?"

Sherlock scoffs and gives him a look of utter disgust. "You're serious?"

"Y-yeah..?"

"Ugh, you're such a simpleton. It's now May…"

"It's June 1st, actually."

"Right. Well, close enough. June 1st in London. Going by the tan line on your finger, it was obtained at least three months ago, as it's fading. Going by the weather in London around February and March, I can tell you it's not hot, sunny, nor tropical enough to give you that much of a sun tan, so the only logical conclusion is a vacation abroad during the cold and dreary beginning of the year in London."

"Astonishing..."

"E-Excuse me?"

"Your gifts. It's just…you have this incredible gift of insight, yet you choose to be a junkie, bordering the cusp of death. Why? That's a terrible, horrible waste of talent. But I knew there was a reason I looked into this alley earlier. I just…I had a feeling I should."

Sherlock groans and rubs his face. "Please don't give me all that song and dance about fate and destiny type crap."

The D.I chuckles lightly. "Alright. Well, the rig should be here soon. You need to be checked out. If you want, I'll come with."

"I don't need a damn checkup." Sherlock snaps.

"Yes, you do. You nearly overdosed. You're going, or I'll arrest you for possession of an illegal substance."

"Ughhhhhh." He flops back on the recycling and stares up at the glaring sun. "Just go away. Leave me be."

"Sorry mate, not going to happen. You must be what, twenty-five? You're pretty much a kid."

"Twenty-/nine/", he growls. "I'm not a kid."

"Well, you're acting like one. So behave or the cuffs are going on. Look, I don't want to have to play good cop, bad cop. I want to keep this civil. I hate being bad cop. Please don't make it any difficult than this has to be."

Sherlock huffs and set his jaw, his pale forearm bruised and aching from the track marks. He was not very gentle with himself last night, and his hands were already trembling by his third injection of the evening. He doesn't even remember how he got in the alley.

"So...what's your name? I'm Greg."

Looking up at him with a sharp, intense annoyance, Sherlock's blue-green eyes glistened in the sun. "Sherlock..."

"What?"

"Sherlock."

Greg Lestrade quirks an eyebrow. "Sher...Sherlink...Sherl..."

"Oh for God's sake! It's NOT that hard. SHER. LOCK. Sher like "sure", lock like "lock". Got it?"

"Sher-lock. Got it, sorry. It's just…not something you hear every day, that's all."

"Why would my name be ordinary when I'm extraordinary?"

"Well…I suppose you have a point there..."

"I always do."

"Right, well c'mon. Up you go. The rig is here", he states as the ambulance pulls up. Lestrade gently helps Sherlock to his feet, he grunts when his throbbing arm brushes his side. Sherlock allows him to lead him shakily to the ambulance and onto a gurney. He pulls a list out of his pocket and hands it to D.I Lestrade.

"I-It's the list...of what I've taken. Just heroin this time but er...all the measurements are on there. If they need to know..."

Lestrade's eyes widen a bit as he peers at the piece of paper but nods slowly. "I'll follow in my car. I'll see ya soon, kid- er.. Sher-lock."

Sherlock nods as his headache takes over, allowing him to drift to sleep in the ambulance.

{ The Blog of DOCTOR Molly Hooper – June 1st, 2008

Today went pretty great, a lot better than I imagined it would. My first day in the morgue by myself, and it felt so freeing. Granted, I was definitely nervous doing my first autopsy without anyone looking over my shoulder, but at the same time I had confidence in what I was doing, and I successfully completed it. It was an older woman, age 82. She was alone in her home when she died, which is why the family requested an autopsy. Despite suspicions from the family, she did in fact die of natural causes. Nothing that would point towards foul play at all, which is good because she looks like she was a kind person.

My new boss is a nice, jolly looking, chubby fellow. His name is Dr. Michael Stamford. He's the head of the pathology department. He prefers just to be called "Mike" though. Mike popped by a few times to make sure I was doing okay. He's a really good boss and he seems to genuinely care about his employees.

Unfortunately, the morgue is not the best place in the hospital to make new friends. Today wasn't so successful in that aspect, but I'm sure it will come with time. Plus, as I mentioned a couple weeks ago, not many people want to be friends with someone who cuts up dead bodies for a living. It would take someone very special and understanding to be able to handle that, and I get it. I do understand that, and I knew that when I chose this career. Plus, at least I still have Meena! As long as I have my best friend, she's really the only one I need and I am satisfied with having one friend that knows me, as apposed to many who do know truly know me.

I've been stopping by Speedy's more often on my way to work when I have a bit of extra time. Mrs. Hudson is an incredible baker. I find it funny that she lives on "Baker" Street. Hehe. But not only is she a great baker, but she's the type of woman that you meet, and you automatically see her as your grandmother. She's warm, sweet, caring, and she gives pretty great advice. However, I have also gotten a sense of how tough she is. Not only did she scare an employee of hers who was this great, big, tall six foot something bulky man baker, but when I told her what I did for a living she laughed and cracked a joke. Was not the reaction I was expected, but a reaction that was pleasantly different from any other I've ever gotten. She's truly a special woman; makes my mornings better. She also asked me today if I were single. HA. Of course, I'm single, I'm a /pathologist/. When I told her this she just scoffed and told me that a real man would love me for the strange, yet incredible and "beautiful" (in her words, not mine) woman I am. I'm pretty sure I turned into a tomato at that point. Let's be honest, what man would ever like a woman like me? My last boyfriend, Trevor (six years ago) broke up with me when he realized what I was going to Uni to become. Point and case.

X X X Molly }

*Three Years Earlier June 2005*

{ The Digital Journal of Sherlock Holmes – June 1st, 2005}

I'm in hell. Pure, unadulterated hell. By hell, I obviously mean hospital. I'll survive, as I always do, but having all these people around telling me what I need to do and tending to me is disgusting. I'd rather be left alone! Plus, typing this on my small mobile is not as functional as typing it on my laptop. But, back to hospital- I did not come here of my own accord, of course. I met a D.I from the NSY. D.I Lestrade. He's a decent fellow I suppose. Idiotic like most normal people, but decent, nonetheless. He dragged me here to be "checked" because there may or may not have been a situation in which he possibly thought I was dead. It was either here or a cell, so I took the road less rocky. Well, less rocky as long as Mycroft doesn't find out either way.

However, I very much enjoyed the look of surprise on Lestrade's face when he realized my "gifts" as he called it. I much prefer to call it my power of deduction. It never ceases to either impress or completely scare the pants off people. It gives me pleasure when I scare them though, it's quite funny. They act like I'm some clairvoyant mind reader or some crap. The absolutely cockamamie things normal people will think up despite logic never ceases to astound me. My ability to read people to a tee has nothing to do with mind reading, however I must admit that would be pretty invigorating, if it were ever possible. Which it's not, since it defies logic.

Lestrade was incredibly simple to read, and terrible at being undercover, or in "plain clothes", as he says. He's a professional officer of the law, a family man, a great father despite the frankly horrifying relationship he has with their mother, and he's a man's man. Into rugby, having pints, running after criminals for invigoration (something I could see being exciting). I got all of that from his car; well, the glimpse that I got of his car before being hauled into the rig.

Children's books and toys spread about the back seat. Three girls and one boy, the youngest being a set of girl/boy twins going by the matching toddler car seats and the photo of him with the four of them in his line of sight from the driver's seat (less their mother), rugby charm hanging from the mirror with his favorite team on it, neon uniform vest and jacket on one side of the back seat for outdoor police work. Must I say more? Ah, you're waiting for an explanation as to how I know he's a man's man. Well, let's be honest- with a big complicated family like that, what guy wouldn't want the occasional, or weekly pint with his buddies while watching the game? That one was simple.

Hopefully, I can go back to my flat soon. I absolutely dread being here if you didn't get that already. My veins are tingling, and I need a fix. I know I shouldn't have one...this is the worst part of being a user. Also, the fact that if I don't shoot up again, the detox will take me down too. Maybe if I get out of here, I can distract myself and take a walk to Speedy's, grabbing one of those delicious blueberry scones that the older woman who owns the place makes. They're delicious and I'm suddenly starving and nauseous all at once.

Detox is so much fun, said nobody ever.

SH }

Lestrade walks into his hospital room and grins. "Ah, you're awake this time! Of course, on your phone. All you younger people are so attached to those things now. How're you feeling?"

"Fine.", Sherlock mumbles, setting his phone on his lap.

Greg sits backwards on a chair and rests his arms on the top. "Fine? Are you sure? Cause most drug addicts I meet would not use that term to define how they feel after a near overdose."

"/User/, I am a /user/, not an addict."

"Mhh...I don't quite know about that. If you weren't an addict you would have been able to stop yourself from nearly overdosing, yet you needed it so much that you didn't."

"Shut up."

"Ooh, hit a nerve, did I? Good, because you need help. You're the most talented and intelligent young man I have ever met, Sherlock. You have absolutely unlimited potential and seeing that go down the drain because you have an addiction is sickening. You could be free of that and use your talents to get a good job, to help a lot of people if you wanted to."

"Pfft.", he scoffs, turning his head away.

"Hey, I mean it. Look, I'm one of the bosses of the detective unit at New Scotland Yard. I'm willing to make a deal with you. I looked you up and realized that you not only have a chemistry degree, but also a criminal psychology and forensics degree. That's super impressive. SO, if you do us both a favor and check yourself into a rehab, which I will help pay for, I'd be willing to bring you into my job and show you how we do things. Your skill of noticing tiny details could be extremely helpful in crime solving. I want you to shadow me for awhile to see if it would be something you'd be interested in, in the long run. Plus, you would be using your mind and hopefully not thinking about needing drugs."

Sherlock looks over at him and furrows his brow. "What? Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why? Why would you want to help someone like me? I'm an arsehole drug "addict" in your mind, so why the hell would you want to have to handle me day after day shadowing you at your job?"

"I told you. Your skills are completely unique, and very impressive. I don't think you're an ass, I just think you need to channel your mind into something more productive and not destructive. But as I said, you would have to go to rehab and be completely clean before you'd be able to come to NSY with me. So…what do you say?"

Sherlock sighs shakily and looks at his trembling hands. "Did my brother put you up to this?"

"Brother? No."

"Good. As long as he doesn't know I'm going to rehab then...I suppose I'll take you up on your offer."

"Good." Lestrade takes out a business card and hands it to Sherlock. "This is the rehab that my niece went to. She's doing so well now. It was comfortable there, and the staff cared. I'm assuming it will be four to five months for you, just to be sure. Ninety days to detox, thirty days for extended sober care, and thirty days of therapy. Once they think you're okay to leave, I'll take you on as my shadow. But you'll be randomly drug tested as you work with me, to be sure you're sticking to being sober. Alright?"

Sherlock groans and clenches his jaw. "Fine."

"Alright then. The nurse is going to come in with your discharge papers shortly, I'll drive you to your house, or flat, or wherever and you can pack, and we will get you settled in tonight."

Sherlock rubs his face then looks at Lestrade, completely taken aback by how nice he is being to him, especially since he just met him, and he had already been severely deduced by him. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Gary."

"Greg."

"Hm?"

"It's Greg, not Gary."

"Right well, its Sherlock, not Sherlink. Payback's a bitch."

Lestrade laughs and Sherlock joins in after a moment. "Touché."