Molly Hooper is nervous. And confident. She is nervously confident. Confidently nervous. If you will. Oh God.

Molly hitches the strap up for the fourteenth (vast underestimation) count. The bloody dress. Sarah had insisted she get it – "omigod, Molly, Mr Darcy is going to be like a dog at broth when he sees you in that…you have to get it!"

The diamante straps were awful pretty - £150, thank you very much – and it was hers.

God, did anyone ever answer the door? Molly shifted her gift bag to the other hand. She had been prepared this year – embarrassingly so. More for her new set of friends than her actual family, truth be told. Mum was fine, but she was so distracted at the moment; all she could see were aquamarine eyes and dark curls… is that truly the Christmas spirit that the church and John Lewis were asking us to think about? Probably not.

When John finally opens the door, she is passed stressing and follows him, fatalistically up the stairs. What could be so awful? The bag in her hand weighs heavier
than ever – maybe it was too bold a move; but sometimes, Sherlock Holmes needs not to be in charge of everything…this really is something she thinks he will like.

Hooper, get a grip….you are a skilled professional. You do not need the approval of a flawed, addictive, rude, potential sociopath…you will always have Blossom Hill and the entire box set of Sex and the City (aka: The Bible) if needed.

Molly knows Greg Lestrade`s eyes are on stalks as she sheds her outer layers, but – god help her – she can only really see the only man in the room who isn't paying her any attention. Why is he on his lap top when there are numerous visitors in the room? Why, Molly, are you even asking that question?

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him." No way. He promised he wouldn`t…

"What? Sorry - what?" Would she play along? Baby likes to play…

"In fact you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift." Oh, really?

John: "Take a day off." Bless you John Watson; always the Bingley to his Darcy.

Lestrade: "Sherlock, have a drink." Lovely Greg – although he may have had more of an eyeful of Hooper bosom than was advisable…

Yet Sherlock Holmes cannot be halted.

"Oh come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag. Perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. Must be someone special then. Shade of red echoes the lipstick. Either a subsonscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all. That all suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn. And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from the make-up and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…"

Molly`s eyes widen in silent admiration. He`s really going for it. Folding her arms; battle stance. All her nerves have disappeared. Just keep going…you will be sorry...

She moves closer. His clear eyes are glistening. He is loving this. Good…good.

She is as calm as death when she quietly announces: "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always..."

And yet, recently and for quite a while, his eyes have said something else. God - this is empowering!

Then, predictably, Sherlock lifts the offending present from the bag and bothers to read the label:

`Dearest Sherlock – love Molly`

Then on the reverse of the label:

`JM contacted my blog tonight. Details inside the box. Merry Christmas!`

All the colour has left his face. Suddenly, he is no longer the smartest person in the room and all Molly can do is smile to herself – he`s got a way to go, but Sherlock Holmes definitely has - potential. He puts down her gift – very carefully – and leans into her. She feels his breath on her face and he is so close, his eyelashes brush her cheek. God…an audience made it even more … just MORE…

"I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He breathes into her ear and her heart thumps like a dancing bambi.

What no-one else hears is what she treasures the most.

"Thank you."

xoxoxoxoxoxox

Christmas day in the Morgue. And you thought the Workhouse was bad…

Molly had left Baker Street earlier and was just cooling her heels at home, waiting for Shrek to begin, when she got the apologetic call from Mike.

"It`s an emergency Molly – the powers that be have insisted the matter is sorted tonight. I would go myself, but I`m in Norfolk with the wife`s family – " sounds of screaming children, high on Christmas, and very loud TV dominated the background. Molly feels Mike Stamford would have quite enjoyed a quick trip to St Bart`s that evening. But no, it was no trouble. Christmas can be a bit crappy sometimes. She was glad to be in the peace and quiet in a place where all lives must end.

She catches Sherlock Holmes clocking her Christmas jumper and, despite the anxiety on his face, she detects a microscopic ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I both see, and observe, Mr Holmes.

"You didn't need to come in, Molly"

"That's okay. Everyone else was busy with... Christmas. Ah, the face is a bit sort of bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult."

Molly has pulled back the sheet from the Jane Doe`s face. Blunt force trauma. Not such a pretty end to a once pretty girl. Mycroft Holmes, maleficent in his pin-stripe and Abercrombie, steps forward. His cold eyes survey the body without a glimmer of emotion. Molly idly wonders what Christmas`s were like Chez Holmes, back in the day. Grim, she surmised.

"That's her, isn't it?" He looks quizzically at his brother.

"Show me the rest of her." Sherlock Holmes – always the potential to surprise. Molly obliges. Good body. For a corpse. All those pilates classes have only led you here. You may as well have eaten more cake.

"That's her."

He seems very certain. Molly checks her paper work again, trying to disguise a blush creeping up her neck. She casually wonders if she may be suffering from some kind of idiopathic craniofacial erythema…

Mycroft, politely dismissive: "Thank you, Miss Hooper." Sherlock has already left in a flurry of Belstaff and icy air.

She can`t help ask him: "Who is she? How did Sherlock recognise her from... not her face?"

Mycroft says nothing and she must be content with a tightening of his mouth a bid goodnight.

The wall telephone is ringing as he leaves the room, following his brother.

Sherlock stands outside the door of the morgue. Something inside him feels…raw and unyielding. Despite his casual words to his brother, Sherlock feels the inner workings of his chest and throat. They are tight and his eyes are swimming with treacherous tears which he will not allow to fall. What the hell was he doing? Massive, deep breath. God, he would physically assault someone for a Capstan`s Full-Strength right now.

A shocking lurch as the door opens and his mask is resumed as he turns.

Molly – Molly Hooper? She has a file in her hand and her eyes meet his. And he knows his mask is just a waste of time with her.

"Sherlock," Breathless … from running … something was pretty urgent. "I need to talk to you – about the body back there…"

"There is nothing more I can say about Miss Adler – "

Molly interrupts by holding up the file. He reads anxiety in her face. He finds he doesn't like it. She speaks:

"Something does not add up. I just took a phone call that was meant for someone else…a phone call which leads me to believe – that body is not who you think it is."

She has the rare pleasure of seeing actual surprise on the face of Sherlock Holmes. It`s probably been seen more often on Mount Rushmore.

"What can you mean?"

"A cover up – it isn't her…" her kind, deep brown eyes look shyly into his pale face. "… don`t worry Sherlock…I think the lady you seek isn't on that slab. I think she`s still alive."

And a lovely and genuine smile spreads across his face as he takes her hands and just holds them.

xoxoxoxoxooxox