Aaahhh! Thank you all for being your awesome, fantastic selves. Thank you for your follows and favorites and reviews!

And since I always try to reply to all of them -

Black Night - thank you for your review! I'm glad you liked it, and I hope this one is also to your liking. Although it might frustrate you a bit. :)

I know this next chapter is kind of inserting a mystery into a mystery, but bear with me...it plays out. It's connected. Let me know if this chapter confused you. I tried re-writing it a different way, but for some reason my brain insists on it being...well...this way. You'll know what I mean. I hope.

This mystery within the mystery comes from Doyle's story The Disappearance of Lady Carfax.

I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter 26, In Which Love is a Well-Laid Plan

The best laid plans

of mice and men

too often go astray.

-Robert Burns

She could smell new money from miles away – and that young thing – all dark hair and make-up and bling and loud laughter and flaunting diamonds – that young thing was new money. Smirking, she checked her reflection in the hotel's lobby mirror – perfect, as always, and subtly nudged her husband. "Spring chicken in fresh dough at seven o'clock, darlin' – should be exquisitely tasty." Her voice was a low, pleasant murmur that blended in with the bustle around them.

His eyes swept the room, taking care not to linger on the mark his terribly crafty, dangerously beautiful wife had just made, and a roguish grin broke out across his own handsome face. "Delicious. You always do have the best taste, dear."

"I know. That's why you married me."

Sherlock flexed his own hand surreptitiously as he looked over the body, waiting for Molly. He estimated it would take her four and half minutes to finish her coffee and make it to the morgue, based on her physiological response after he had done his part to ease the stress in her newly healed hand.

He frowned. She should have known better than to favor it on her first day back.

And he should have known better than to fix it for her.

Four minutes now.

Four minutes to get his own erratic heartbeat under control and take this amazing surge of electric energy and funnel it into crime-solving.

Because his own hand was tingling like crazy – a warm, pleasant, prickling sensation that returned whenever he focused on it. He wondered briefly if his lips would experience the same sensations if pressed against hers.

He shook his head sharply, and in a quick trip to his mind palace, carefully divided his thoughts on Molly from the refreshed energy he was feeling at the moment. He compartmentalized. He carefully placed all of the memories and images and sensations associated with Molly on a shelf in her room, and took his heightened sense of awareness with him.

For once, he left the door open.

Thankfully, the tension in the lab was the pleasant sort that made each party desire to impress the other. Thankfully, each party knew that the way to impress the other was to do their best work at the task at hand.

Sherlock quickly deduced that the young man on the slab had been part of a gang, that he had kidnapped the little girl in question from a rival gang's territory as a rite of passage in retaliation for a drug bust, and that he was on drugs when he was killed.

Molly confirmed that he had been high on mixture of methamphetamines and ecstasy when he died, that he'd also been drinking tequila, that he'd suffered abuse as a child, and that the bullet used to kill him was the same as the bullets used to kill the other five victims.

Molly's face was content and concentrating as she carefully removed the bullet fragments. She paused suddenly, a slow smile breaking out across her face. "Sherlock!" She whispered excitedly. "A large piece of the bullet lodged in between the fatty tissue beneath his organs and his spinal cord! We may be able to get a partial print, this time!"

"Hey, you're quite a looker, now, aren'tchya Lisssssie?" Marie giggled, slurring her friend's name just a bit as she sat next to her, holding out the extra glass of champagne she'd brought her. "Just imagine how much more attractive you are now that you're right flush, eh? Not that you weren't gorgeous before."

"Well, took long enough for my birthday to get here. Now we can celebrate in style." Lissie tossed her dark hair flippantly behind her shoulder.

The two young women clinked glasses and toasted Felicity Carlson's good fortune.

"Three days? Three days it will take them to run the print through their database?" He groaned. "The rest of the world is so slow it's infuriating."Sherlock growled in frustration, flinging himself dramatically into the nearest chair.

"Well, from what I understand, that's pretty fast for such a small fraction of the print, actually," Molly said sympathetically. "Sarah's actually been working on a faster algorithm for the computer; it'd take a week if weren't…for..." her voice trailed off as she noticed Sherlock wasn't listening.

Suddenly, a yawn so large she felt it might crack her skull escaped. Blinking rapidly, she shook her head. The thrill of Sherlock's attentions to her hand had passed, and she was in need of sleep now more than ever.

"Well," she said awkwardly, attempting to stifle another yawn – darn, they were an epidemic, now – "I'm headed home, Sherlock. Would you like to share a cab? Or are you staying here for the next three days?" She meant the last part to sound like a joke, but it fell a bit flat as she yawned again.

Sherlock didn't look up. Stretching the sluggishness out of her shoulders and neck, she made her way to the front of St. Bart's and left him behind to ponder the case.

The pleasant sound of clinking glasses and the low murmur of steady speech at the hotel restaurant was almost cathartic after several days of rather intense partying. Lissie pushed a strand of her glossy black hair behind her ear and reclined in her seat. Marie was off somewhere with Manuel, the flirty boy they'd met their first night here, at the club. She sighed. Now that she had money – for goodness sake, she'd waited long enough for her twenty-fifth birthday and her parents' jewels – she may have to choose her friends more carefully. She wasn't a fool, after all. She knew the nice sum of Euros she'd gotten from selling the sapphire broach (hideous grandmother jewelry, it was) would only last so long. And she did have a limited amount of jewels. Perhaps she could catch a rich man, if she was lucky. He'd have to be at least as hot as Manuel, though. And she had to admit, she'd have to find some classier people to schmooze off of. Class was catchy, she found. It all had to do with the balance of people in the given location. A singular classy person could be brought down a level or two if surrounded long enough by trash. It worked in reverse as well. And she was determined to move up a level or two.

Not that she considered herself trashy. Not at all. She just knew what a lot of these rich bourgeois people thought of people like her. First generation wealth, most of which was lost in the sweatshop scandal that occurred right after her father's death and her mother's disappearance. However, that bloody wench hadn't been able to touch the jewels in the safety deposit box her father left her before he died, to be given to her on her twenty-fifth birthday. She smirked. She'd always been a daddy's girl.

Swirling the expensive chardonnay in her glass, she looked around the room, straightening herself in her chair. Surely there'd be someone here…

"David, really, you said you'd be done with your meetings in time for the show tonight! You know I've been dying to see Don Giovanni. It won't be the same without you!" A woman, possibly in her early thirties, but still fabulously fit with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and a chic green dress, sighed gracefully as they took their seats at the table directly next to Lissie. Her ears perked up at their exchange.

"I'm sorry, darling. You know how these things can be," her husband, her perfect match in attractiveness and poise, replied apologetically. "I'll make it up to you, I promise. Perhaps dinner at Chez Leon tomorrow evening?"

She smiled graciously – forgivingly – at her husband. "Ah, well. I do know how important it is that you attend those meetings." She frowned at the menu in her hand. "Still, it's a shame your ticket will go to waste." She tapped a manicured nail against her cheek thoughtfully, scanning the room.

Lissie drew in her breath, sharply, and looked away, pretending to be very interested in her mobile. No way no way no way! Lissie had been scanning the room just moments before the couple arrived, and she knew she was the only single person in the restaurant at the time. She felt a tug of pride at having worn the new black dress that fell just so along her waist as she felt the woman's eyes land on her. Play it cool, Felicity Carlson. You're polite and gracious and poised.

"Pardon me," a hesitant voice pulled Lissie's attention towards the table beside her.

"Yes?" Lissie replied pleasantly, remembering to turn her body to face the people she was addressing. Convey polite attention and interest.

"Dr. David Singer, and my wife, Linda."

"Felicity Carlson," she introduced herself, inclining her head politely.

"Well, miss – you see, it seems we have an extra ticket to Don Giovanni this evening. I am unable to attend with my wife, and it would be a shame if a chance to view that masterpiece were to go to waste. You look like a woman of standard. Would you, perhaps, be interested in attending the opera tonight? Of course, you would not have to go with her, you could simply enjoy the performance." His eyes were a warm shade of brown and for a man possibly ten years older than her, he was quite attractive.

The woman smiled charmingly at her as well. "Of course, you could go with me, if you wanted to."

Lissie returned her smile. "I would be delighted! It's so generous of you to offer. I wouldn't want to impose, though..." Manuel will keep Marie occupied tonight, anyway.

"Oh, darling, you wouldn't impose! It's just brilliant! Be sure to wear your best gown, dear. Meet me in the lobby at eight. We can share a limo, if you like."

"Oh!" O.M.G. Lissie couldn't believe her luck. Smiling, charmingly, again. "That would be lovely. I'll meet you in the lobby at eight."

Molly lifted her arm to hail an approaching cab. It sped past as though it hadn't seen her. She frowned. Bother.

"It's all in the wrist," Sherlock's voice caused her to shiver pleasantly. Mmm. Fatigue did funny things to her mind. "And in the stance. The most effective way to hail a cab is to stand with feet shoulder-width apart, facing the oncoming vehicle, and to flick your wrist, like so," he said, demonstrating. A cab immediately pulled into position on the curb. He smirked at her.

"Possibly it also has something to do with the fact that you're nearly a foot and half taller than me," she smiled at him as they slid into the cab together.

Sherlock gave the man his address, and Molly's, and sat back in his seat to focus on the case. There was something – something he could do to track this sniper down faster – he was certain of it. It was on the edges of his consciousness, teasing him and causing him no end of frustration.

Molly had the incredible, incomprehensible ability to ease his frustration and sharpen his senses simply by being there (chemical reactions – not so much chemical defects – perhaps she was the exception to that rule – because these chemical reactions had an uplifting affect on his faculties…). So when she'd left, although it had taken him a few moments, her absence was physically felt. What a strange combination of distraction and calm awareness.

Now that he was beside her again, he was able to reason through different scenarios at breakneck speed, instead of the comparatively slow speed he'd been running at earlier. Track him through the metal in the bullets? No, common alloy, nothing trackable there – track him through his locations? Sarah Jane was already using a geometric algorithm to track patterns in the locations of both the victim and the location the sniper fired from, so he skipped quickly over that – track him through his victims? – the Yard was doing that, and he'd already gone through the list of the sniper victims and their kidnapping victims – but there had to be a clue in the murder victims themselves – somewhere – somewhere –

It had been a marvelous few nights. Lissie had become quite decent friends with the Singers. They were so sophisticated. She could practically feel the classiness rubbing off on her. When Marie had come to her, stating that she was in love and wanted to elope with Manuel, Lissie had given her silly, simple friend her blessing and a generous wedding gift, and sent them on their way to Brighton.

When the Singers invited her to continue with them to the Baden Towers in Ipswich, it took all of her self-control to accept slowly and graciously and walk back to her room. Once inside, she squealed like a child and pumped her fists in the air, dancing in a circle to silent music.

She thought she was on her way up.

She was wrong.

"…well, thank you, Sherlock. It was…eventful. I know you'll catch him soon. You can always come by the lab, to try and find more about the victims. If you want." Molly said softly – sleepily – as the cab pulled up in front of Baker Street.

Perhaps it was the fatigue coupled with the thrill of having Sherlock in close proximity to her so frequently, lately – but a sudden surge of bravery and nonchalance pulsed through her body, and in a move decidedly un-Molly-like, she smiled a self-satisfied, sleepy little smile and leaned forward to kiss Sherlock softly – modestly – on the cheek.

Mrs. Vaughn frowned as she looked over her glasses at the calendar on the refrigerator. She was a dowdy older woman, pushing fifty-eight, with an ample bosom and whispy gray hair that she kept in a perpetual bun. She was precisely like a motherly librarian or that strict great-aunt who made you keep your feet off the furniture but snuck you an extra snack with a wink. Lissie always called at least once a week - often several times a week - to keep her updated on life in general. She'd kept track of her since the death of her parents years ago…and she'd known that after her twenty-fifth birthday, Lissie might be a bit late to ring – it was cause to celebrate, for sure – but to go nearly two weeks without any contact at all? Without returning any of her calls, or emails, or even texts? It was unheard of. And it was making her very uneasy.

She finally got a hold of Marie – it was always difficult to talk to that girl, had her head in the clouds at all hours of the day – and in the evenings, she was more often than not loaded and impossible to talk to.

When the girl finally answered, around one o'clock in the afternoon, her voice was groggy with sleep. "Mmmlo?"

"Marie? Marie? Hello?" Mrs. Leslie Vaughn raised her voice, frustrated.

She was met with the sound of sheets crinkling, and something thumping, and a man chuckling, and Marie giggling. Mrs. Vaughn rolled her eyes and made the sign of the cross. "Marie Devine!" She scolded, attempting to get the attention of the girl on the other line.

"Ooh, sorry, ma'am!" More giggling. "It's actually Marie Rodriguez now!"

"Heaven help us," Mrs. Vaughn whispered, mouthing a prayer. "Did you get married, child?!"

"Yes! And you'll like him, Sm'Vaughn. Miss…uh…missus Vaughn. Haha. Stop, Manny. Anywho – what'dya need, Mrs. Vaughn?"

"I need to get a hold of Lissie. Is she there with you?"

"Oh – no. I haven't seen her in a week. What's that? Oh…right, Manny. Technically, we haven't seen her in ten days."

"Ten days?!" Leslie Vaughn crossed herself again, beginning to worry. "Have you spoken with her lately?"

"Uhm…no, ma'am. I've been a bit…uh…busy, you know. Manny! Ah…I'm gonna hafta let you go, Mrs. Vaughn. Let me know if you…uh, need anything else."

Sherlock was so close – he almost had it – victims – something in the victims – literally – when Molly's motion caught his attention, from the corner of his eye. He turned his head to look, flicking his gaze to the window – ah, they were here, at Baker Str –

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

And all of the Molly memories and images and sensations flew off the shelves and flooded his mind and body as her lips pressed chastely against his.

He'd left the door open, after all.

Oh.

Oh!

It took her a moment to register – he'd turned his head, at exactly the wrong time – at exactly the right time – and instead of his cheek, she'd met his lips.

And they felt marvelous.

She smelled like coffee, and vanilla lip balm, and mint gum, and lemon disinfectant, and if the presence of Molly Hooper sparked his senses, than her kiss was sensory overload.

It was glorious.

He'd kissed other women in the past, to be sure – for cases – and he'd always done the deed with slight distaste, his mind counting out the appropriate timing for the emotion he was supposed to be portraying.

Kissing Molly was nothing like that.

All he could focus on were the two tiny points of joining – her pinky finger, which had pressed lightly against his on the seat of the cab as he made to exit, and her lips – warm, and soft, and slightly moist, and her eyes –wide open, staring – startled – into his own – as she pulled back, after – after...he thought back quickly - was it - mere seconds?

It was an accident – the span of a heartbeat, an intake of breath – but it was electric and Molly felt a craving settle deep inside her chest –

Oh – what had she done? What had she done? It was perfect, and awful, and what had she done?

"Sorry!" She blurted out, fully alert now. "I didn't – I mean, I was – just – cheek – you – sorry!"

He blinked, and a bewildered grin flitted across his face for the span of a second, and he licked his lips – coffee and mint and vanilla – on her lips – on – in – in his victims – and it clicked. Everything fell into place, and he had a lead.

"You sneaky bugger! You made a mistake!" He said, eyes darting about the cab, lips tugging into a smirk, gripping Molly's shoulders firmly. "Brilliant, just – brilliant – Molly, your keys –I need the lab keys -" he fumbled through her bag, and found them on his own – "don't worry, I've got them – the sniper – you keep this cab, I'll get a new one – the game is on!"

And he was out the door and had flagged a new cab before he had the chance to see the mortified blush in Molly's face fade, or the single tear of fury and self-loathing and heartbreak slide down her cheek.

He found the files in less than five minutes. He flipped through the pages of the reports quickly, searching for the contents of the stomach and intestines of the last few victims. Scanning through, he frowned and his brow puckered. "Sneaky…sneaky…"

He was going to take the files, and thought better of it. It would be better to make copies and put the files back in their place. Molly would appreciate that, tomorrow.

Hmm.

Molly.

Now that he'd acted on his brilliant revelation, he had time to ponder the catalyst for it.

The kiss (if one could call it that) lasted less than two seconds, but it was like…a reboot, like a rewiring of his hard drive. A respite that jump-started his mind. Numbing bliss, followed by a surge of unlocked doors.

He frowned. It could be dangerous business, kissing. Bliss – too much of that might distract him. Best not do it again until this case was over. Unless he needed another reboot.

Right now, he felt as though he could go full steam ahead for days. He had food decomposition to analyze. Perhaps Molly would be interested in helping him. She had kissed him, after all. Even if it was an accident.

He knew she meant to kiss his cheek – he saw that, as he reviewed the kiss in his mind – and that explained why it only lasted 1.5 seconds, and her startled response – and in spite of himself, he grinned. Imagine what really kissing her would feel like.

Perhaps he could be both a Great Sparrow and a Machine. It was all about compartmentalizing.

If anyone could do it, it was him.

He'd ask John about how best to propose a relationship with Molly later. A real one. He wanted this.

He had lots of experience being a machine. A human – with a – romantic partner – not so much.

For once, he wanted to do it right.

John was shaving the following morning when Mrs. Hudson rang.

He placed the call on speaker. "Hello!" He said cheerfully, swishing his razor in the water. "How are you this morning, Mrs. Hudson?"

The sound of dry retching met his ears. Concerned, he set his razor on the sink. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Ugh! Nasty! Disgusting - " the sound of a door closing, and footsteps on the stairs – "John, you need – blech – to come to Baker Street. The smell – oh, he's experimenting again – and – and – surely someone will complain – I'M complaining – how'm I supposed to eat anything with – with – rotting food and – stomach juices – and – and-"

John sighed and shook his head. He should have known better, on a day off – no Madeline (day out with mummy), no work – that Sherlock would mess it up, somehow.

"I'll be over in fifteen minutes, Mrs. Hudson."

"Bless you, John."

Mrs. Hudson was right. The flat was rank. The smell hit him as soon as he opened the door to 221 Baker Street. He suppressed a gag himself, and pulled the jelly out of his pocket that he kept around for such an occasion. Rubbing a bit below his nose, he knocked on the door and left the jelly with Mrs. Hudson, before letting himself into the flat.

"Ugh – Sherlock!" John bellowed.

Sherlock popped his head out of the bathroom door, curls wild and goggles pressed up above his forehead. "Morning John!" He called cheerfully. "There's been a break in the case!" And he launched into an explanation about food decomposition and cell absorption and how similarities between the victims allowed him to track where they'd been the last two days of their lives.

"And although he's clever, he's not that clever – see, he's been following them - not all of them, not the young nurse woman or the old auto mechanic - but the rest of them - on the Tube nearest the bonds and parole station located here" – he gestured vaguely to spot on a map on the wall 0 "it's the only place that sells those awful fake hollow chips with artificial flavoring, and that orange drink – and though they don't all eat that Tube food, there's enough of a pattern that I can track his movements by narrowing down the stations his victims traveled round; I'll have to call Lestrade for surveillance footage…" he began to mumble again as a timer dinged in the kitchen, and he rushed out, using tongs to stir a foul-smelling mixture that could have been either diced cabbage or partially-digested beef.

"And what on earth possessed you to smell up the flat?! Poor Mrs. Hudson hasn't eaten a thing yet today, and it's nearly lunch-time. Sherlock, you need to clean up this mess." John curled his lip at the sight of something distinctly human bobbing in a solution that smelled like vinegar.

"John, what's more important? Mrs. Hudson's stomach, or catching a sniper? Besides, I'm nearly done. It would have been faster if Molly had responded to my text and come to Baker Street to help me." He frowned at that, and paused for a moment, thinking through something.

"Well I can hardly blame her for-" and John stopped, catching a glimpse of Sherlock's face. "What happened with Molly?" He asked suspiciously.

And his mind betrayed him by thinking about a kiss and a slight blush rose to his cheeks and he scowled and turned away, but it was too late.

John followed him, straining to keep in view of his face, in a sort of strange cat-and-mouse dance. "You're – you – Sherlock Holmes! You're blushing!"

"Am not. Over-exertion. I'm out of shape." A turn, and yet – there was John, again. Underfoot.

"Yes, you are. You're blushing. What happened? Oh, for – hmm. Did you kiss her?"

Sherlock scowled even more fiercely, attempting to focus on the experiment in front of him. "Shut up, John."

John stopped, mouth open and arms slack at his sides, and a smile broke out on his face. "You kissed her!"

"I said shut up, John. It was an accident. More of an…acquainting of the lips, than a kiss."

John shook his head, still grinning. "Oh, if you're blushing, it was definitely a kiss. And you – you liked it, didn't you?"

"Again, not a real kiss. It was very brief. Less than two seconds. It was a…a mistake. She was attempting to kiss my cheek, and I…turned my head."

"You turned your head."

Sherlock tried to shrug off John's interest, focusing on the beaker with coffee and an acidic solution resembling stomach juices in it. "Yes."

"And your 'lips got acquainted', and then what happened?"

Sherlock frowned again. Although John's timing was off – it was always off - he didn't want to do anything until the case was closed - there couldn't be any harm in telling John his plan. John usually needed more time to think things through anyway. "I decided I needed to plan a proposal."

If John's jaw dropped any lower, it would be on the floor. His eyes bugged out of his head, and he looked very much like he was about to drop dead of apoplexy.

Sherlock quickly reasoned that John had come to the wrong conclusion. "Not a marriage proposal, John. A relationship proposal. A plan. I've decided I want to be a Great Sparrow and a machine. I can do both. I need to solidify the details. And…I…may need help…with…that. Oh, for heaven's sake…close your mouth, John."

"Right. Okay. Just…don't call it a proposal when you're talking to Molly. You'd give her a heart attack, mmm?"

"Noted."

John paused, allowing Sherlock to work for a few minutes as he reasoned through this new development of Sherlock's. "Sherlock."

A grunt in reply.

"I'm saying this now, but I'll say it again because I know you'll need to hear it repeatedly. Molly's a giving person, and she's…well, she can work with you better than anyone I know. But you don't get to solidify the details on your own. You need to discuss them with her. Your job isn't to come in with a proposal about how often you see each other and when you're allowed to kiss and…and…whatever else would be in that ridiculous proposal. I can't even imagine - ugh. Your job…good Lord, Sherlock – your job is to sweep her off her feet and give her several damn good reasons to be in a relationship with you and – and you'll have to show her and tell her and - you're right, you're going to need help."

Shaking his head, John realized he hadn't heard the whole story, yet. With suspicion returning to his mind and reappearing on his face, he asked, "Sherlock – what did she say? Or how did she react, afterwards? After the kiss?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a few minutes, as he was dumping boiling liquid with something very sticky in it down the drain. When he was done, John repeated himself.

"She didn't really have a chance to say anything."

A sinking feeling bloomed in John's stomach. "Why not?"

No answer.

"What did you do?" He groaned and rubbed his hand across his face. "You ran, didn't you? You left her – oh, you sorry piece of -"

"I didn't run," Sherlock replied indignantly. "I had a revelation on the sniper case. Time was of the essence. I needed to get back to the lab."

John shook his head and gritted his teeth, not quite sure how to proceed. "Sherlock. You two kissed – yes, whether it was an accident or not – your lips touched, and you kissed – and then you ran away and left Molly! You feel all gung-ho because you enjoyed it and you've finally come to your senses about - about relationships and you have a good case going now but poor Molly – you kissed her and then you ran away."

And now Sherlock had a sinking feeling in his stomach as well, as he replayed the events of the night before in his mind. How had he missed this before? "John," he said suddenly, "I…may have…also…said…something. Not good." Biting his cheeks sullenly, his face seemed to freeze in realization. "Definitely…Not…Good."

John sighed and crossed his arms across his chest. "What did you say?"

Sherlock avoided John's gaze. "In my defense, her kiss was the key that unlocked this aspect of the sniper case. She taste- well, er…she…"

"Molly's kiss reminded you of partially digested food? Don't tell her that, either, Sherlock." John interjected, appalled.

"Noted. Well…I realized…he'd made a mistake. He'd been…following them…and I knew they had to be linked somehow…and so…I said…" to his credit, Sherlock's voice fell in embarrassment as he relayed the words of the previous evening - "'You sneaky bugger! You made a mistake!'" Sherlock winced internally and avoided eye contact with John, choosing instead to become fascinated with the crack on the cupboard above the stove.

John's face was horrified, and for several moments, he looked rather like a fish.

"Oh, come on - she couldn't have actually thought I was talking about her?!" Sherlock protested.

"Yeah, yeah - she could! Sherlock! Of all the bloody things – you – you are an imbecile! I've got to call Mary…you…you kissed her and called her a bugger and said she made a mistake and then left her!"

Sherlock stared at the ground, face stoic but feeling for all the world like a panicked schoolchild. "Again, I wasn't talking about her. Also…in the interest of full disclosure, I also took her lab keys." He said quietly.

"You – you-" John stopped and breathed deeply through his nose. "Right. Damage control. You need to find Molly – no not now, you'll just bugger it up worse if you call her now - you've already texted her this morning about that horrid experiment? No wonder she didn't - ugh. I'll call Mary – we can fix this. We can fix this. A plan – we need – a plan-" and he set his hand in something that looked like digested spaghetti – "ugh, but first - first we need to – clean all this – bloody mess up."

An hour later, John had called Mary, explained the situation, and sent her and Madeline to try to check on Molly and offer what consolation and commiseration they could. Mary was to be discreet and report back to the men - fortunately, 'discreet' was something Mary was all too familiar with.

The smell was just beginning to leave the flat when Mrs. Hudson arrived with a client.

"Sherlock, you've got a-"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson," both Sherlock and John replied, tense and glaring at each other. They had not quite come to agreement on Operation Mollified. In fact, the only thing they had tentatively agreed on was the name. In each man's opinion, it was the only intelligent thing the other had contributed to the discussion at all. Sherlock's first idea had been to return Molly's set of keys with the results of the digestion experiment, to apologize, and to generously give her some of the credit for catching the sniper when he was caught. John thought he should do that anyway, and told Sherlock in no uncertain terms that he needed to do something bigger to apologize, and then do something even more romantic, like take her flowers or dinner or for a walk in the park – showing her he loved her – and tell her he loved her, and that he was sorry - telling her he loved her - and in the span of fifteen minutes both ended up insulting the other well over twenty times each. Hence the glares, and the rude response to Mrs. Hudson.

"Well! Hmph! They're usually not like this – especially John -" a glare was sent in his direction – "you'll have to forgive them. Just take a seat, and they'll notice you shortly. Well…eventually," Mrs. Hudson stated, leaving the woman to sit on the couch opposite the two scowling men.

After about five minutes of awkward silence, the woman began to speak in a no-nonsense, honest kind of way. "Well. If you can take five minutes from your lover's spat-"

"Not gay," both men corrected, angry glares locked on each other's faces.

"Really? No matter. My name is Mrs. Leslie Vaughn, and I believe my young friend Felicity Carlson has been kidnapped. Possibly murdered."

Both men seemed to snap to attention. John continued to give Sherlock a glaring look, and Sherlock turned to the woman seated across from them. "You have five minutes to convince me to take your case. Oh, please," he sneered at John, whose face had nearly turned purple, "the sniper's not going to stop killing people just because I need to apologize to Molly. A kidnapping may be relevant to this case."

And she explained about Lissie, and her parent's jewels, and Marie, and Manuel, and her call to the Hotel International in Cambridge where Lissie had been staying, and that she hadn't heard from Lissie in two weeks and how unusual that was, but that the Yard hadn't done much of anything yet because she was on holiday and had last been seen at the Hotel International just four days ago, where she checked herself out, and besides, Mrs. Vaughn wasn't family.

Sherlock thought for a moment, blinking and scowling at the woman, who returned his scowl with a fierce look of her own. "Well?" She asked impatiently, after several moments of silence.

"Call the papers. Sell them a sob story about young Felicia-"

"Felicity!"

"-whatever – and her tragic young life and post a reward for information on her whereabouts. Cry – be hysterical – beg for someone to find her. Make sure you mention that you think she's been kidnapped, and that the Yard has not been helpful."

Sherlock rose and began pulling on his coat and scarf.

"That's it?" Mrs. Vaughn frowned.

"Yes, that's it," Sherlock curtly replied.

"What about Lissie?"

Sherlock paused, and in a moment of brilliant retaliation, flashed a grin at John. "My associate John Watson is more than capable of tracking her down. He'll lead the investigation. I currently have another that I'm working on at the moment, and it requires my full attention."

And John Watson found that however mightily and colourfully he protested, he could not dissuade either Sherlock or Mrs. Vaughn from assigning Felicity Carlson's case to him.

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