"So, Molly, what's the verdict on Mrs. Barrow's nail polish?" Sherlock inquired the next morning as he burst into the lab. Molly looked up from the files she was shuffling through and gave him a blank look.

"What?"

"Mrs. Barrow's forefinger? The autopsy? Do wake up, Molly."

"Oh," Molly's face crumpled, and her cheeks reddened in embarrassment, "I – I'm sorry, things got busy, I had things on my mind and . . ."

"You forgot," Sherlock sighed, collapsing in the seat beside her, "Molly, a man's alibi depends on the condition of that polish!"

"Oh god," Molly said. To Sherlock's alarm, her eyes began to fill with tears. "Really?"

"Well, no . . ." Sherlock admitted, backpedalling. To be honest, he had already solved the case, and just out of curiosity wanted to verify some of his theories about the details. Unnecessary details, really. "Not really. But it would have helped. Never mind."

Sherlock could tell that Molly was trying to avoid crying as she buried her head back into the file and desolately shuffled through the papers inside. Apparently her reaction to whatever personal distress she was experiencing had transformed from irritability to emotional instability. Hardly an improvement; Sherlock had hoped for that hand today, although even a foot would be acceptable. Molly's moods were interfering with his work; this wouldn't do at all. Oh well; he had a couple of samples of algae he was interested in investigating anyway, so the visit to the lab wasn't a complete waste of time.

He had only been at his work for about fifteen minutes when a knock on the door came.

"Come in," Molly called. She looked up as the door opened, and all of the color immediately drained from her face.

The visitors were two women, obviously not workers in the hospital. They wore stylish, immaculate outfits, and even more flawless hairstyles. The older woman (he approximated her age to be sixty-one) wore a pair of black slacks with a sleek, geometrically-patterned silk blouse and a pair of ebony Christian Louboutin shoes. Her jewelry was understated, but elegant. The younger woman, in her late twenties, was dressed similarly, but wore a sleek skirt instead. Their makeup was flawless, but not gaudy, and was obviously something they were practiced at. They exuded confidence; perhaps the older woman displayed a small amount of snobbery, but the younger appeared to be confident enough that even snobbery was unnecessary. It was obvious, however, that they were slightly uncomfortable with their surroundings; even though they acted happy to be here, they constantly cast wary glances at the vials and Petri dishes sitting on the countertops and tables, as if expecting to see random limbs tucked away somewhere.

Sherlock immediately knew who they were. Their brown eyes and hair, small ears, slightly upturned noses, and dainty lips made it very obvious that they were close relatives of Molly's, and judging by their ages, it was evident that they were most likely her mother and sister. And it wouldn't have taken Sherlock Holmes to determine that, judging by the expression of shock and horror on Molly's face, the two visitors had been the reason behind her recent anxieties.

"M-mom," Molly stuttered, trying to turn her dismayed appearance into a welcoming smile, and failing miserably. "I thought you were going to meet me at Zucca tonight . . ."

"We got in early, dear!" her mother laughed, leaning in to kiss her cheek, "Don't look so shocked! The man at the desk- you know, the . . ." -she searched for the politically correct word - "large one, with the glasses – he said it was alright. That you'd be absolutely delighted to have visitors during your tedious lab hours!"

"Oh," Molly said, still trying and failing to force a believable smile, "Okay. Um. How was your trip?"

"Terrible!" Molly's sister answered, giving her a gentle hug. She moved to put her Fendi handbag down on the nearby countertop, but glanced at its surgically white surface and seemed to change her mind, "It's just so cold! I thought my toes would freeze."

Sherlock opened his mouth to comment on her poor choice of shoes if that was a genuine concern, but thought better of it.

"So this is where you spend all of your time?" Molly's mother commented, gazing at the stark white cabinets and shelves and countertops. "How . . . hygienic."

Sherlock watched their exchanges with a bemused air. He knew that Molly had come from a wealthy background, but it was still somewhat disconcerting to see the sharp contrast between her and her closest family members. Her ill-fitting floral cardigans and scrunchie-held ponytail created quite the disparity with her relatives' chic choices in fashion. They hid their distaste about as well as Molly hid her despair.

"Well," Molly's mother said after a few minutes of small talk, during which Molly had gradually regained her bearings a bit, "is your boyfriend working today? We'd love to meet him if he's got a bit of free time . . . Or maybe he could meet us for dinner tonight? I'd love to meet him before the ball on Friday."

Molly's bearings were, once again, completely lost. The whiteness of her face now made the paleness that had struck her when her relatives came in look like a blush. She gaped like a fish for a moment, and then let out a defeated sigh.

"Listen, about that," Molly murmured, "I'm not sure if the whole ball thing will work out."

Sherlock watched with interest as Molly stared down at her tennis shows in obvious misery. Here it was; Sherlock immediately recognized this as the reason for her recent distress. He could not remember ever seeing Molly this upset; and if Sherlock Holmes couldn't remember it, it hadn't happened.

"Whatever do you mean, dear?" her mother asked with obvious concern, "I thought you'd be elated! It's the perfect Valentine's date . . . Unless you had something else planned? I suppose that would be fine to, but we'd at least like to meet him for dinner or something . . ."

"Listen, Mother," Molly said, taking a deep breath as if to steel herself for an ordeal ahead, "I know I told you I was seeing someone from work . . ."

Sherlock frowned. He knew she wasn't; he knew from her "office romances" in the past that there was no way she would continue to make those clothing choices or ignore her hair if that were true.

"But I wasn't quite telling the truth. I just – I'm sorry, but I didn't want you to worry about me, and I know you're afraid I'll never find someone, but –"

So this was it. And it was time for him to step in and make it all right.

"Now, Molly!" Sherlock cut her off briskly, jumping up from the stool and throwing an arm around her shoulders, "I think we can tell them, don't you? If anyone should know about your personal life, it's your mother and sister, who obviously care about you enough to want to know about who you've decided to . . ." he hesitated for a moment, " . . . show your affection for?"

Molly stared at him. "W-what . . . ?"

"Oh, come on," Sherlock shot a winning grin at her, and then turned it towards her perplexed mother and sister, "She's so bashful! Certainly one to avoid publicity, that's for sure. Which is why we haven't really made our relationship public yet; you know how the press is. I don't really think this one little indiscretion will hurt though . . . "

"Oh!" exclaimed Evelyn, clasping her hands in delight, "You're that detective bloke who's been in the papers! Molly's told us all about you! I had no idea you two were a couple . . . In fact, I kind of thought you were living with . . ." She hesitated.

"You know how rumors are!" Sherlock grinned again. How tedious this was getting. "Which is precisely why Molly and I have decided to keep our relationship somewhat confidential for the time being." He bent down to give Molly a quick peck on the cheek. She turned as red as a beet; she certainly wasn't very good at this.

"I don't think one evening in public would hurt though, dear, do you? A ball sounds like the perfect romantic evening . . ."

Molly appeared to be in a disbelieving stupor. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her, prompting her to answer and mentally begging her to go along with this. She blinked slowly.

"Um, yes, I suppose," she said slowly, "That would be . . . fun."

"Oh, delightful!" Molly's mother said, clapping her hands together in glee. Sherlock watched with amusement as a huge smile broke out across her distinguished face. "I'm so very happy that you've found someone, Molly. Evelyn and I were so afraid . . ." she exchanged a knowing look with her younger daughter, "Well, anyway, we will be delighted to get to know you better, Mr. Holmes. Would you like to join us for dinner tonight?"

"Certainly!" Sherlock answered jubilantly. All of this smiling was getting exhausting; he hoped they'd leave soon.

"B-but . . ." Molly stuttered, looking at Sherlock in alarm, "I – I thought you had to work late tonight? You had a case, or something, remember?" Her eyes pleaded with him.

Apparently she needed a date for one night, Sherlock decided, but she didn't want to risk revealing her deception (which Sherlock had by now fully deduced). Did she really think he was that inadequate with disguise? He would certainly prove her wrong.

"No, no," Sherlock said, waving his hand in dismissal, "It's fine. I would love to spend a little time with your family!"

"Well, we're very much looking forward to it, and it was wonderful to meet you," Evelyn said warmly, shaking Sherlock's hand. Her mother was still grinning like an idiot. "But we'd better get moving. Charles is checking into the hotel for us; he's probably itching to check out the city. Besides, we've got to get out of these old clothes for our dinner tonight! "

They said their customary farewells, Sherlock with forced enthusiasm, and Molly with distracted stutters. She was still trying to get over her shock.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Molly spun around and glared at Sherlock.

"What the hell was that about?!"

"Oh, do calm yourself, Molly," Sherlock said, bemused. He sat back down in the chair beside her, "It was obvious you were facing quite some distress. Lied to your mother, did you?" Sherlock clicked his tongue in mock consternation.

"Well, yes, but I can handle myself," Molly murmured, "I just get tired of their . . . their sympathy. Or their derision, really. I wanted them to think, well, that I can do something other than fail at relationships."

"So I was being helpful, correct?" Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

"I suppose," Molly said thoughtfully, "So you were trying to be nice?"

"You say that with such disbelief," Sherlock said with mock sarcasm.

"It's just kind of surprising, that's all," she answered, not quite able to hide a note of suspicion, "So you're not investigating my family for some reason, or trying to impersonate my boyfriend to get into the ball for a case, or something like that?"

"No," Sherlock said simply. He didn't think she'd appreciate it if he explained that her irritability, and resulting unhelpfulness, was getting in the way of his casework, and this was the perfect solution. He could sacrifice one evening of boring pleasantries in order to regain full access to all of the morgue's services.

"Thank you, then," Molly said appreciatively, "Although I'm not saying it was a good idea, or that it will even work. Are you really planning on coming to dinner tonight?"

"I said I would, didn't I?"

"Well, yes, but . . . " Molly hesitated, "Just try not to be . . . rude. Or psychopathic. Okay?"

"Why would I do that?"

Molly bit her lip but remained silent.

"So, just out of curiosity, how long have you been keeping up this whole 'boyfriend' deception?"

"Only a few days," she sighed, "I told Mother I was seeing someone from work. I never imagined that she would be coming to visit this soon, and that she would want to meet him. I should have just admitted it then and there. I thought about asking Anthony, but, well . . ."

"Anthony? From the filing department?" Sherlock grimaced.

"Yes."

"He's an idiot."

Molly smiled for the first time in days. "Yes, he is."

Sherlock smirked confidently as he turned back to his work. He had certainly earned that hand now.