Sherlock Holmes could not take his eyes off the slim form of his examiner as she climbed the stone steps from the morgue basement at St. Bartholomew's. The warm light from the lamp Watson carried bathed her honey brown chignon as well as the few curls that had sprung loose beneath it and grazed her slender neck in a soft glow. Sherlock's breathing sounded abnormally loud in his ears- almost angry in the way that it huffed from his lips. Well, he was a bit irritated. Molly Hooper's fingers should be clutching his arm as they ascended the stairs, not John Watson's.

He felt his nostrils flare. He was vexed by the distraction she presented. There was nothing remarkable about her drab clothing, waif-like frame or the modest way in which she carried herself. In fact, one might describe her as mousy if she even caught one's attention in the first place. Yet, there was much to be appreciated if a person's eyes lingered such as the narrow vee of her delicate back and the inward curve of her waist. Then there were the fine, graceful fingers that laid like hovering hummingbirds on Watson's sleeve. A breath lingered on Sherlock's lips as her head turned to answer a question Watson posed. Her profile was a work of feminine perfection. She at all times appeared humble and affable with her pert nose, high cheekbones and determined chin.

However, as pleasing as he found her outside appearance, it was but window dressing concealing the complexity of her soul. What really engrossed him was the sheer incongruity of the woman who existed within the vessel. She was at once both timid and fierce, fearful yet brave, shy but bold, and good who yearned to be bad. Still, he did not understand the insanity she cultivated within him. Remarkable people existed everywhere. Why did this one inspire such madness?

Sherlock reached in his inside pocket and shook out his deerstalker. He stuffed it on his head and cricked his neck. Something had to be done about this situation. He needed to find a way to expunge these . . . feelings. His eyes rested upon a dainty mole on the back of Hooper's neck. Almost as if she felt the caress of his gaze, her hand reached back and rubbed over that very spot. His abdomen flexed and tightened. He stifled a sigh as his thoughts clarified. Forget feelings, his most pressing distraction was lust. He felt enslaved by it as if his physical inclinations had cut a deep trough through his mind. All thoughts seemed hemmed in by their impossibly high walls . . . all thoughts led to Hooper.

In no time, their group reached the top landing which opened out to a corridor on the ground floor where the gas lights were still lit. Phillip Anderson stood down the passage shaking and stroking his chin as he stared out a window. His eyes were so large Sherlock could see a glint from his whites. Then something seemed to catch his attention and he stumbled backwards.

"Aaah!" He screamed as he hit the opposite wall. "Ga-ah, it is her! It is the bride!"

"Wh-What?" He heard Hooper gasp.

Sherlock's pulse sped up. He side-stepped around Watson and his examiner and ran towards the window. Anderson was a ridiculous man but he was not a liar. Sherlock skidded to a stop just in time to see the ghost-like figure of a woman in a wedding dress retreating into the fog though the lead-glass window. His companions scurried to catch up to him.

"Dear God," Watson breathed. "It is not possible."

Sherlock glanced back at Watson and his small examiner with her mouth set in a firm line. Her eyes narrowed and rapidly scanned the figure. She shook her head, then looked up to Sherlock. Her breathing appeared affected but she was resolute when she spoke.

"She is too tall," Hooper said simply.

Her words jolted him from his daze. He extended his hand towards his friend and waved it emphatically.

"Watson, the lantern!" Sherlock demanded.

The lamp rattled and its light flickered as Watson acquiesced. Sherlock snatched it from him by its metal ring handle and sprinted back towards the morgue steps.

"Holmes!" Watson's footsteps clamored after him.

Sherlock continued down into the darkness. His breaths spurted from his mouth in sharp jabs. Adrenaline flushed through his system. He ran past the various slabs back towards where they had left the body of the bride. His lungs burned when he came to a stop and blinked several times at the empty table. A heavy white linen appeared to be thrown back in the same manner as if someone had just hopped from bed. An inexplicable icy jab of fear caused his shoulders to tense. His mind raced irrationally until he expunged a lungful of stale air. He stood there panting a moment and fought succumbing to the creeping, crawling sensation of insecurity along his flesh. He searched the immediate area and returned his gaze to the table. He was not mistaken, this was the table that had held the dead woman. The bench he had modified for Hooper stood alongside it but . . . it was as if a corpse had never rested there.

"Christ! Oh, Christ! Was that her then?" Watson sputtered at his rear.

Sherlock whirled and held up the lamp. "Of course not!"

Even though his reply was emphatic, doubt coiled in his stomach like a serpent ready to strike. He cursed his frail human condition and its instinctual peculiarities.

"B-B-But she is gone," Watson rasped.

Sherlock rubbed his free hand over his face. How much time had passed? Not enough for several scenarios that nudged their way into his consciousness. He groaned and hit his fist against his temple. The extinguished gas lamps concealed too much. They needed to relight the basement lights to reveal the method of their corpse's extraction.

"H-Holmes, how is it that she has disappeared? We were not absent this place more than a minute or two . . ."

Sherlock's eyes twitched back and forth so quickly, his vision swam. "Whatever it is we saw upstairs, it was not the woman who was on this table! You heard Hooper . . . Christ! . . . Hooper! Where is she?"

As if recoiling like a boomerang, Sherlock shot back towards the upper floor with Watson trailing behind. Again, the detective's guts corkscrewed. He thought he might be sick. He was spared that humiliation, though. His small examiner stood at the far end of the corridor cajoling and rubbing the back of the frightened Anderson. Sherlock snatched his hat from his head and doubled over heaving. Relief nearly buckled his knees. Watson caught up, teetered over to the wall and slumped against it.

"Bloody hell," he gasped between breaths, "I was not meant to run like this."

Sherlock rose to his full height again and took another shuddering breath. He hadn't put much stock in the sightings of the bride about town, dismissing them as the over-active imaginations of fools or possibly others seeking notoriety. However, it was apparent a dangerous game was afoot and their safety was in question. He needed to return Hooper to her residence. He smoothed his hair, tugged his hat onto his head and started in her direction. Unexpectedly, Inspector Gregory Lestrade rounded the corner near her and Anderson. Before Sherlock could take another step, Watson grabbed his sleeve.

"Holmes, stop."

Sherlock tried to shake him off.

"No, I mean it, Holmes. Stop."

Sherlock looked down at his friend. Watson had a determined set to his jaw. His brows jumped up but his eyes were slanted in disapproval. Sherlock's nose wrinkled as he felt the pinch of a frown. He knew that Watson was about to utter the inconvenient truth.

"Inspector Lestrade's arrival is rather fortuitous, hmm?" Watson asked pointedly. "It is probably best if he escorts Miss Hooper home."

When Sherlock didn't respond, Watson huffed. "You have a case to solve, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock felt every hair on the back of his neck bristle. Watson released his arm and sighed.

"Choices, Holmes, choices. Even the small ones matter."

One by one, Sherlock's feet shuffled forward and he drifted in the direction of the gathering at the end of the corridor. Anderson still suffered from his nerves. His face was as white as the table linens at the Royal Grande Hotel. Lestrade had removed his hat to converse with Hooper (and he looked much too earnest for Sherlock's liking). They both spoke to Anderson as if he were a child.

"You see, it could not have been the lady on the table. I would wager my life on it. Our specter was a good two stone heavier and several inches taller than our body," Hooper glanced Sherlock's way as he neared. "Come, tell him, Holmes. She is still down there in the morgue, is she not?"

Sherlock lifted his chin. Normally he enjoyed discombobulating Anderson but Hooper's expectant gaze made it difficult to utter his next words.

"Unfortunately, our bride has vanished from her slab."

Hooper's eyes widened in shock. Lestrade's mouth hung open. Anderson squeaked, then clutched at his own throat. His eyes rolled back in his head and suddenly, he collapsed in a dead faint. Hooper cried out as the tall, thin man folded forwards on top of her and she buckled under his weight. Fortunately, the rest of the men were quick to react. Sherlock caught the pair before they fell, hefted Anderson off of his examiner and shoved the limp morgue assistant towards Lestrade and Watson.

"Do something with him, will you?" He barked.

Hooper leaned heavily on him for support and then attempted to stand. She winced at the effort.

"Are you injured?" Sherlock asked gruffly and shot an angry look at the still unconscious Anderson.

"I-I am fine," she wheezed. "I just twisted my knee a bit."

Without a second thought, Sherlock dipped and lifted Hooper into his arms. She protested but he jostled her up against his chest and began strolling towards the exit where they would find the hackney cabs. Watson and Lestrade dragged Anderson along in their wake. Hooper might as well have been a down-filled pillow as that is how insubstantial she felt in his arms. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the feather-lightness of her fingers resting on his chest. She felt stiff in his arms for a few seconds but eventually relaxed and laid her head against his shoulder. When her hair tickled the underside of his chin his arms involuntarily constricted.

He cursed his vise-like memory. He could relive every nuance of every moment he experienced in vivid detail and at that instant the tremble of her lips beneath his and the shy experimentation of her tongue jumped to the forefront of his mind. He shouldn't have done it. He shouldn't have tasted her but in the intimacy of the morgue darkness, he had deduced from how her skin had warmed, her breaths had shortened and her fingers had pressed into him insistently that she desired him. So, he had relented and kissed her thinking that at twenty-eight, she was probably no stranger to stolen kisses. However, her sweet, ardent response had been something of an unexpected high very much like the blasted drugs he had once indulged in. Of course, like the drugs, he found himself feeling the potent need to consume Molly Hooper.

Out on the hospital curb, the hacks awaited on the like foxes circling, ready to snatch a meal. Then, just like that, Watson corralled a hack and Holmes reluctantly helped Hooper inside. He stepped back from the carriage as Watson solicited the Inspector to escort Hooper home.

"Holmes," Lestrade tipped his hat back on his head and glanced at the hack, "it seems providence has brought me here this evening. Do not worry, I will ensure your Miss Hooper is returned safely-"

"She is not my Miss Hooper, Inspector," Sherlock grumbled. "She is her own person."

Lestrade nodded and looked at Watson in confusion. Then he seemed to perk up. Sherlock flexed his fingers as irritation coursed through him.

"Right then," the policeman replied with a beaming smile, "well, like I said, providence then. Oh, I almost forgot, you remember the Clairmont residence where that young fellow was done in by a fireplace poker? The family has requested your assistance. It seems the phantom bride has been haunting their back lane lately. They think the murder of that young fellow was the work of your Lady ghost. They want to have an interview with you tomorrow but discreet, mind you. They were none too appreciative of that article Dr. Watson wrote. They do not like that you implied the murder might be the work of one of the family."

Sherlock scoffed. "Watson wrote no such thing. He did not even mention the family in question."

"Ah, but you know in this town people make the connection. So, will you meet them?"

Sherlock sighed and flicked his fingers. "I will send them a missive tomorrow to arrange it."

Lestrade bowed his head and climbed in next to Molly while Anderson was deposited in the seat opposite. The morgue assistant moaned and rolled to the side. Sherlock exhaled shakily as he closed the door. The experience was unsettling as if he were waving adieu to Hooper from a steamer taking her away across the Atlantic. Hooper sat forward as the cab lurched away, her hand pressed against the glass door and she gave him a questioning look through the warped carriage window. Sherlock felt oddly bereft, as if it was the last time he would gaze upon his examiner.

Watson cleared his throat. "Well, Holmes, shall we go try to solve this case?"

Sherlock flipped up his collar and spun on his heel.

"Try?" He repeated bitterly. "I never have to try, Watson. I pursue things until their mystery is spent and I am left with the worthless gains of boredom. This is what I do."

His steps faltered and he stopped as a thought solidified in his mind. He stood for a moment in contemplation staring at the towering grey walls of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. His fixation with Molly Hooper need not consume him. The surest way to rid himself of this complication was to uncover her every secret, to know her so thoroughly that there would be nothing left to pique his curiosity. Sherlock clapped his hands together, suddenly energized by the formulation of a plan. He was going to see Hooper again. He was going to see much, much more of her.