Lestrade huffs and rubs his face with both hands, this recent serial killer case taking a toll on both him and the officers under his rank. They have yet to catch the man responsible for now two brutal murders of women in different areas of London, and it has been a couple of months that DI Lestrade as well as Sergeant Donovan and a few other officers have worked the case with no luck. The murderer first struck back on the first of March, and now it's nearly three weeks into May and they still have little to no leads.

He had taken the liberty of bringing Sherlock in to help out to the dismay of everyone else at Scotland Yard, because he has used almost every tactic in the book to try to catch this guy with no success.

Sherlock smirks as he peeks into Lestrade's office, his Belstaff billowing behind him as it has ever since he was gifted with it. "So the Scotland Yard is stuck...inconceivable", he says sarcastically.

"Haha, very funny. Seriously though, we can't seem to catch this guy. You're…sneaky. I figure you could give us a hand."

Sherlock smirks and snatches the file off of his desk, looking through it. His blue-green eyes flick over the pages, intrigued. "Hmm…alright. I'll take the case. The one thing you can always count on is the murderer making a mistake. So I'll just follow his motive and wait for him to screw up."

"That's the problem. This guy doesn't mess up. He's hard to catch."

"Ah, but he will Lestrade. Just give it time."

"Time? Sherlock people are dying by this guy's hand."

"Yes, well if they were cleverer then they wouldn't be, but alas we live in a world full of morons. Anything else?"

Greg rolls his eyes at him scoldingly.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "You seem shocked. Don't be, you know how I am. I assume this file is my copy?"

"Yes, it's yours. Just...keep me in the loop, eh?"

"Mhh", he smirks and saunters back out the door as Lestrade heaves a sigh of disdain.

Later that day he gets a text from Greg with the profiles of people who are new to London and who have criminal pasts or are on the watch list for past crimes or association with crime organizations. There are three names on the list that are possible suspects for the ongoing murders. One of the profiles belongs to a middle-aged man by the name of Angelo Lucciano, part of a family who was heavily involved in the Sicilian Mafia back in the 80s and 90s. He had fled Italy for the UK after serving his lengthy prison sentence for being involved in his family's 'business'. Unfortunately for him, he was one of the two last living relatives who had to serve time for the family's sins, though he did kill men when he claimed he had to, for his own survival.

The other two men were also previous outsiders who served time for rape, murder, and torture. Sherlock marked them for what he now called his 'homeless network'; previous acquaintances from the street that he would commune with when heavily high and unable to help himself on the drugs. Now that he is clean, for now, he knew their skills and they came in handy during cases where Sherlock needed to be in more than one place at once. Now that he is making money, it is much easier to get them to help him. Incentive always works better than word.

As he plasters the info and their photos all over his tiny kitchen table he paces around. Realizing the phone isn't pinging yet, he goes out for a smoke to calm his jitters.

Molly sighs, looking at the singular strawberry cupcake on her plate. Here goes another birthday with nobody special to spend it with. Twenty-eight. At least she has the career she has always wanted, a savings account, and a new kitten. Not to mention there are days she gets to work with or peek at the gorgeous curly-haired detective, Sherlock Holmes. She should be happy with herself, and she is…sort of. She's proud of the things she has accomplished in her life, but she would be a lot prouder if she had somebody special to share those accomplishments with.

Within the last year, she did have some optimistic offers for dating, however, none of them panned out well. Men just cannot seem to get past the fact that she cuts up cadavers for a living, and /likes/ it. Especially that one man, Drake, who had the gall to comment "Wow you're a bit too morbid for a cute little thing such as yourself." Yeah, that was the first and last time she spoke with him.

If her father were alive, certainly he would have celebrated with her. And if Matty weren't away in the Army, he would have too. Molly misses them dearly, but she knows her father is in a better place, and that her brother needs to live the life he chooses to live, despite her worry for him. At least her best friend Meena had called earlier. That had perked up Molly's day. Molly has been missing her more than ever recently, still having difficulty coming out of her shell to make new friends. Meena was the outgoing one.

Eating the strawberry slice off of the pink frosting, she smiles just slightly at the sweetness and the thoughts of the crazy memories she has with Meena, as she hears a purring at her feet. Grinning, Molly looks down at her fluffball of a kitten.

"Oh, Toby. At least I have you here. You love me", she chuckles lightly. "Thanks for the birthday wishes Tobias Hooper."

All Sherlock can hear is his own panting breaths and the blood rushing in his ears as he runs down the street. One of his markers has done something very suspicious indeed, and he plans to catch him before he can kill anyone else. Armed with his gun, Sherlock quickly ducks behind a house as the man looks behind him to see if he is being followed. Breathing heavily, Sherlock chews his lip, hoping the man had not seen him. After waiting a moment, he peeks out a sees him still walking a bit dodgy.

He had gotten a tip from one of his homeless network members that Angelo Lucciano had been around neighborhoods he had never been to, and that tonight, he had purchased a crowbar and some duct tape. Putting that together with the fact that Sherlock saw him coming out of an alley after the late-night purchase, that makes him a very likely suspect for the murders.

Matching his stride once again but staying at a good distance, Sherlock watches him closely. The man goes up to a darkened home and attempts to use the crowbar to pry the front door open. When his attempts fail, he moves around to a lower side window and smashes it. After he enters, Sherlock rushes up to the window and climbs through as well, grabbing the man's neck from behind and tackling him. They scuffle nearly endlessly, one getting control, then the other. In the struggle, Sherlock hits his head on the corner of an end table, slicing himself above the eyebrow. He uses all his strength to gain control once again, until the man yells out.

"Va bene, hai vinto! Okay, you won! Please don't shoot me.", the man pants hard, as he is heavier set. Sherlock hesitantly releases him, grabbing the crowbar away.

"New Scotland Yard. Do you have any other weapons?"

"No. Just…just that."

"You're pretty foolish for a murderer. Honestly, I've no clue why they haven't caught you yet, it was pretty easy." Sherlock pats him down, finding the duct tape.

"What? No! I-I...I never killed anyone! I swear it."

"No? What's the tape for then?"

Angelo sighs as the police cars show up, lights flashing. "To cover security cameras. I swear, I was just going to steal some jewelry to cover some debts. I just wanted to be rid of my past...I was going to pawn the jewelry. That's all!"

"Oh...well...still. Housebreaking is against the law. Get up." Sherlock grabs his hand and helps the man up, his grey ponytail swaying as he does.

"You don't seem like er, polizia."

"No, I'm not. I lied. But they are.", he nods towards D.I Lestrade and the other officer entering the home.

Greg crosses his arms as the younger officer takes Angelo and handcuffs him. "Sherlock Holmes, what did I say about going off on your own? You can't!"

"Oh, calm down Lestrade. He's not even our killer. Just needed to pawn some jewelry to pay off the rest of his family's debt apparently. No murders, just an illegal trespass."

"Well...fine. Good. I mean...if he were the murderer you could have been killed. You need to be more careful, and you cannot go do this stuff by yourself. Got it?"

Sherlock smirks and shrugs. "He probably would have been gone by the time you got here sooo, I did you a favor anyway."

"Sherlock", he says crossly.

"Oh! And here you go. These were in his possession. Lucky I wore gloves, huh?", he says as he hands him the crowbar and duct tape.

"You need to go to the hospital. You're bleeding."

He realizes the blood from his nasty contact with the end table is dripping down the side of his face. "Oh, that. I'll be fine."

"Sherlock, you need stitches it looks like."

"Yeah, I'll get some. I'll be fine. Now, go on Detective Inspector. I'm sure you need to...do whatever with the scene and contact the homeowner. Busy night for you" he snarks, brushing past him on his way out, smirking to himself.

Molly brushes her hair out before putting it into a side braid since it was still damp from her shower. She knows she shouldn't stay up this late, but oh well, tomorrow was her day off so she could sleep in.

Once cozy in her bed with Toby curled up at her feet, she finally begins to drift into dreamland. That's when the worst thing possible happens. The dreaded doorbell rings. Molly freezes for a moment, hoping whoever it is will go away, but then she hears it ring again.

Groaning and internally cursing, she cautiously grabs her mace spray and pocketknife she keeps in her drawer. She was not expecting visitors and she refuses to be one of those murdered women. Slipping them into the pocket of the dressing gown she tosses on, she makes her way to the door, very slowly opening it a crack to see who it is.

Tossing the door open she squeaks annoyedly. "Sherlock Holmes!? What the hell are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?"

Sherlock brushes past her and rolls his eyes. "I am a detective, Molly. As for the reason of me coming here, clearly you can see that I'm bleeding down my face."

"Oh, yeah...sorry I'm tired. Yes, I see that you're bleeding. Why exactly are standing in my sitting room bleeding?" Molly grabs paper towels and blushes a bit as she holds them to his face before he takes over.

"I er...well I chased down a guy who broke into a house and I accidentally hit my head on a piece of furniture. Looks like a got a deep cut above my eyebrow."

"I mean, why aren't you at the hospital getting stitches?", she asks irritatingly.

"Pfft. I'd have to wait in an emergency room, and besides, I figure it would be quicker coming here. You're a doctor. I assume you have a first aid kit, stitches, needles, and such here."

Molly gapes at him. "You want me to stitch you up? Here? With no topical for the pain?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "God, you speak in exclamations when appalled, don't you?"

Grumbling, Molly shuffles to her bathroom and grabs her first aid kit from under the sink, and returns. "I cannot believe you just assumed I'd even be willing to do this, in the middle of the night!"

"Again with the exclamations, Ms. Hooper...It is, as you pointed out, the middle of the night, and already have a headache."

"You have some gall, Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, I've been told all my life."

"And it's Doctor."

"Hmm?"

"It's Doctor Hooper, to you. Not Miss."

Sherlock smirks slightly. "Right...apologies, Doctor Hooper." He looks at her softly and slightly dazed.

Molly blushes and clears her throat as she moves close to him. This will really sting, and y'know...hurt. I don't have topical or numbing agents..."

"I can handle it. Go on."

Molly concentrates, biting on her tongue as she wipes the blood off and begins to stitch his gash. He breathes in and out slowly but heavily, looking around her flat as much as he can while staying still.

Once she is done, she lets out a shaky sigh. "I've never done that outside of a hospital...so...you're welcome."

"Yes..."

Rolling her eyes, she tosses the bloodied swabs and paper towels and washes her hands. "Are you sure you didn't get a concussion too?"

"No, I didn't hit my head that hard this time."

"This time?"

"I'm prone to er...finding myself in many jams. I'm no stranger to scars and cuts and injury."

"Right...well...you're uh, all set."

Sherlock stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, nodding. "Happy Birthday."

"Wh-what?", Molly's eyes widen.

"The power of deduction is a great tool. You took a half-day today, there were balloons in your office from your coworkers and there's a cupcake box on your counter. A treat for yourself, from well, yourself."

Molly blushes and nods. "Yeah...uh, twenty-eight. Not a big deal though..."

"Age is just a number, right?"

"Yeah, same life anyway. I notice you have a new watch. Looks like I'm not the only one who treats themselves."

He glances down at it. "Oh, yes. From solving my first few cases. Finally making pretty good commissions from taking freelance cases. Hoping to move into a bigger flat next year."

"Me too. Well...I'm saving for a house. Something I always wanted to do. My salary is really really good now, so I should be able to afford it within a year or so. Here's to us, then."

"Here's to us, indeed. Er...thanks. I'll be seeing you. Goodnight, Doctor Hooper."

Molly walks him back to the door and nods slowly. "Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock nods to her and steps out the door, back into the night. Molly closes the door behind him and leans against it for a moment, relishing in the first moment they have shared since knowing each other that was even remotely friendly and 'normal', for his standards. Plus, it wasn't exactly work-related. Maybe there is hope for him yet. Or dare she say...'them'?

Once back under her blankets, she curls up and smiles giddily, happy that she hadn't stuttered as much as she usually does. "God, he's a beautiful man", she thinks as she drifts off to sleep.