Molly Hooper was going to be sick.
Why am I doing this?
She was doing it because she couldn't not do it. She would not-could not-ever tell him no. She wrung her hands as she continued to pace back and forth, running through the plan again in her head. Everything was in place. Everything was perfect. Of course it was-he thought of it.
Where are they?
The thought had barely formed in her mind before the doors to the morgue crashed open, a stretcher with Sherlock's battered body leading the way. The paramedics parked him directly in front of Molly, turned on their heels and exited the room with a flourish. Just then, the blood-toting delivery driver came sauntering in, removing his fake mustache and uniform shirt.
"Well, Sherlock-you were a bit late to the position. Took you ten seconds longer than allotted."
Like a scene out of a horror film, Sherlock, head covered in blood, rose to a sitting position on the stretcher.
"Well, Mycroft," he spat, "I wasn't allotting for my ribs to break on the way down."
"Surely you should have thought of that, dear Brother."
"Mycroft, would you-"
"Excuse me." Molly interjected. "Can we, um, do this?"
Sherlock and Mycroft shared a look that clearly said Later as Sherlock deftly hopped off the stretcher, wincing slightly upon hitting the floor.
Molly opened the drawer containing Frank Cyrus, and mentally blocked the lies she told the family about a mix-up with the body, accidental cremation, and the ashes from her own fireplace. When she turned around, she let out a characteristic squeak and quickly covered her mouth with her hands.
Sherlock was standing in nothing but his pants, a pile of clothes at his feet. The shadow of severe bruises had already begun to form on his sides, supporting his self-diagnosis of broken ribs. Mycroft tossed him a bag and he began to extract very non-Sherlock clothing. Loose fitting blue jeans, trainers, and a grey hoodie boasting the name of a local football team.
"Miss Hooper, for what are you waiting?" Mycroft spoke with an air of indifference, as if she had forgotten to offer him a drink.
"Doctor Hooper. No need to be rude. But he is quite right, Molly. Do hurry up."
Molly quickly came out of her stupor and began dressing Frank Cyrus' body in Sherlock's blood-stained clothes. She had already stayed late last night with a smuggled box of dark hair dye and a curling iron, carefully styling the dead man's hair to match the curly coif she knew so well. Within minutes and a few more units of blood, the body on the slab was recognizable as the Consulting Detective himself. Meanwhile, an unrecognizable Sherlock completed his look by tucking his hair under a baseball cap.
"Right, then," Mycroft drawled, "My work is done. Don't mess this up, Sherlock."
Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft's riff, looked right into Molly's eyes. Her legs turned slightly jelly-like.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
She thought she saw the ghost of a smirk on his face before he climbed into an empty drawer, wheeled himself inside, and closed the door.