Note: Sherlock and Molly have coffee together. Brace yourselves – Chapter 10 finally introduces the much adored purple shirt ;)
And, because I haven't mentioned it in a while – scandalously, I still do not own Sherlock.

"I'm off to Molly's, John. Don't know how long I will be," Sherlock shouted through the flat. When he was just at the stairs, he heard the door of John's bedroom fly open and his friend shouting back, "wait, 'off to Molly's'? You're having coffee at her place? Why?"

Annoyed, Sherlock answered, "You know I don't like these big corporate places. Plus, it's more confidential in the privacy of her flat."

"Well, ok. Just remember…", was all the detective heard before he closed the door and stood on the pavement in front of the house. Today was the first sunny day in weeks. Smiling towards the sky, Sherlock hailed a cab.

_.:0:._

The look on David's face hadn't been one of a kind sort when Molly had told him why she couldn't meet him for coffee this afternoon. She was sorry that she had to disappoint him, the last days had been so much fun. The young pathologist had felt light-hearted, almost jaunty. She loved being adored, and adoring her he did. But, she thought, it was also very good to be away from David for a day. She knew herself too well. If she would let herself be flattered too much, she would rush things. Fall for him, head over heels. And Molly knew, from experience, that she wasn't one to handle this state of mind with grace.

The cause for this very same experience was currently four and a half minutes late for their coffee date. Even though Molly was a little bit nervous about Sherlock coming round to the flat, she found that her breathing was normal and her heart wasn't pumping blood through her body as if she were in the last stages of completing a marathon – a feeling which she'd amiably begun calling 'the Sherlock syndrome'.

Molly was well prepared and determined not to interpret their meeting as anything else than casework. Several papers lay scattered on the kitchen table in front of her and she was watching the droplets of fresh coffee fall into the bowl when she heard the knock on her door. Slowly, she arose and walked towards the sound.

"Hey, Molly!" After she had opened the door, she had clear sight of a smiling Sherlock Holmes. He held out an orchid in a pot. "That's for you!"

"Come in, Sherlock. Let me get your coat. Why exactly have you brought me a plant?"

Tangling out of his coat and trying not to drop the big plant, which was blossoming in a soothing white and red mixture, he explained, "if you are invited to a social event at a friend's house you are obliged to bring something. Mostly some sort of liquor or flowers. And I thought, as this is not an evening event, I'd go with flowers." He was urging her to take the plant now, as he obviously wanted to get rid of it.

"I didn't invite you. You invited yourself. Also, this is not what I would call a social event…," Sherlock's eyes narrowed as she said it and he was beginning to look… disenthralled? So, Molly quickly added, "but, erm, it's nice of you anyway, thanks. Really, I wasn't…, well, shall we sit?" Great, I'm stammering again!

Putting the orchid on a side table, Molly led him through the hallway to the kitchen where the smell of fresh coffee greeted them. Two cups were already placed upon the counter and waited to be filled. Without another word, Molly made her way over and poured the black liquid into them. There was no need for her to ask how he drank his coffee, for she knew very well. When she turned on her heels with the cups in her hands, Sherlock was still standing in the middle of the room, looking slightly clueless. She looked at him closely for the first time since he'd arrived at her small flat.

His dress trousers were nicely tailored but hung a little loose – he hadn't eaten very much lately. The jacket, however, fitted perfectly and when he moved to take it off he uncovered the dark purple shirt she loved so much. It contrasted beautifully with his pale skin and was, as always, not buttoned up to the top. Sherlock saw her appreciative look and smiled inwardly. He'd chosen the shirt to get precisely this reaction and was pleased with himself for anticipating it correctly.

"You dress nicely, you know that? Makes you look fit." Immediately after briskly exclaiming the words, Molly silently choked. What? Why have I said that? Think before you talk, woman. Ah, well. Now it's out. No use in going crazy over it, I guess. Having figured out how she felt about her compliment, Molly smiled at him and gestured towards the table, signalling for him to sit down.

Sherlock, who was surprised by the remark, couldn't help the smirk when he answered, "Yes, I do know that. Thank you." With a wink he sat down. Oh, how flirty he can be if he wants something, her unusually analytical brain jumped in.

"So, what do you have for me?"

Molly grabbed the papers off the table and began explaining. "Max married Jennifer Miller right after he'd finished medical school. From what my old friends say, she definitely is the boss at home. His job basically depends on the mercy of Jennifer's father, Piers. Piers Miller is a successful oncologist. Studied at Cambridge, was a professor there for a while. Then, he opened up his own research centre in Leeds. He works closely with the teaching hospitals, that's how he got Max a job. You know how it is, a lot of favours get exchanged."

Sherlock didn't know but still, he nodded.

"Apparently, Max and Piers were never very close. Everyone I've been talking to says that the old man really made it clear who the superior is. Max never spoke up."

"But your newsletters all refer to some amazing research they do together and how they are the best of friends."

"Yes, well. I guess I would also try to remain an acceptable image when I was asked to send some summary of what I've been doing to the guy who informs all of my old classmates." Actually, she wouldn't - as she'd never bothered to engage in that post-Uni gossip. "Even if it's just for the sake of familiar peace. Max' wife adores her father, her mother died when she was a child – breast cancer."

"That's an acceptable amount of information you gathered. Good, Molly." She shot him a perplexed look. "You say this Piers Miller is an oncologist with his own research centre? Quite a nice job he has."

"Oh yes. His centre even expanded two years ago – he opened up a really nice institute in York with the newest of instruments. He can afford all sorts of luxury. With his money and influence in medical circles he practically owns Max."

Sherlock's eyes lit up for a nanosecond before he spoke. "Molly, you really are quite helpful, thank you." Sherlock said thank you. Huh.

"Can you help me further?" Surprisingly, his face didn't look tortured like it normally did when he had to ask for someone's help.

"Of course." She smiled. "What do you need?"

"Could you get as much as you can on Piers Miller; his life but also his research and his contacts? It will be far less suspicious if a medical scientist conducts some research in the matter. Plus, I am sure that you understand much more of it than I would."

Molly was a little flattered by the compliment, and more so by the fact that he trusted her enough to seek her assistance in a case, but didn't let it get to her. She was too accustomed to this behaviour of his by now. Without any symptoms of the 'Sherlock syndrome' creeping into her demeanour, she stood up from her chair, getting herself another cup of coffee.

"So you think Piers Miller has something to do with your case?"

"I cannot be sure but I highly suspect it. Anyhow, I will need far more information until I can form my opinion. Too many variables are still missing. I think it's best not to confront him with our suspicions right away. The police also don't need to know of them immediately, they don't believe me anyway. If he's really part of the body stealing business he might make a mistake at some point. So, I must insist again that you don't tell anyone about this. "

"Sure. Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly?"

"Please be careful, okay? All this secretive stuff and you not telling the police what you're about to do... If this is dangerous in any…"

"Molly, don't be ridiculous. If this was a dangerous case I would never think of implicating you in the matter." As he said it, Sherlock's eyes got a tiny bit warmer in shade and he tilted his head to the side, looking at her thoroughly. She didn't know what to say and so they sat in silence for a few moments.

Then, Sherlock quickly pulled out his phone and typed in a text message. Since the exchange of information was clearly over and Sherlock had gotten what he had come for, Molly assumed he would leave right away. She awkwardly looked round the kitchen when he didn't move and froze in an uncomfortable half-getting-up position.

"Oh, thanks, I'd love another cup of coffee," came Sherlock's reaction. "So, how was your day? Any exciting deaths?"

Too stunned to do anything else, Molly rose fully and poured Sherlock another cup beginning a story about a dead man who showed interesting patterns in a skin rush. It was actually quite easy to talk to the great Sherlock Holmes when not imprisoned by her shyness and stuttering. After all, he was just a man. A beautiful one, yes, but nonetheless... A man with interests very similar to hers, actually, and therefore nice to chat with.

_.:0:._

When John's phone beeped, he instantly knew whom the message was from. It contained a single word.

York. – SH

John understood and clicked his way to the contacts in his phone.