A/N: Again thanks for all the favs, followers and reviews. I'm glad you like it! This one is only a bit longer, but I promise the next chapers will be loooooong!

Molly Hooper felt lonely. Normally she liked being on her own, but on some days life as a single woman just felt lonely, even more so after the death of Toby. The mere thought of him threatened to bring back tears to her eyes.

She knew when she broke it off with Tom that it meant going back to being single again. Still she had done it, because even when she had been with Tom, sometimes she had felt lonely. Why was it that she never felt lonely when she was with HIM? Even if it was only in the morgue or in the lab, and he didn't even notice her. He never paid any attention to her. Well, that was not true. He did pay attention to her, if he needed something. She sighed deeply, put the mug down on the table in front of the couch and snuggled deeper into her blanket.

Thinking about HIM didn't help the situation. She knew it had been the right thing to do to break up with Tom. It had not been fair. He had only been a substitute for the bitter pill that was Sherlock Holmes. And as much as she wanted to deny it, she had known it from the beginning.

Yes, something had changed between her and the consulting detective, although she couldn't pinpoint what. Yes, he'd said she mattered and there had been those moments when he really looked at her, when he was actually seeing her. Like the last time in the morgue, when he had muttered, "Interesting." Could it be possible that he meant she was interesting? No, because then he would have reacted to the way she had looked that day. He would have said something nice. Who was she kidding? This was Sherlock Holmes – he rarely said something remotely nice.

But she had to admit he had come quite often to the morgue lately; more often than usual. Telling her he needed to check up on some experiments when she knew it wasn't true. Or as with the Wilkinson case: Why was he even at the morgue? He could have come to the right conclusion by only looking at the police report, she was sure about that. What did that all mean? Did it mean anything at all? Oh how she hated herself for thinking about him again! And how much she wanted to be able to put Toby on her lap and pet him. He would purr and press his head against her hand. She knew he was just a cat, but she couldn't imagine a life without him. Only people who themselves had a pet could understand that.

Thinking of how fragile he had looked when he had laid there on the table at the vet almost made her cry again. Because of the sickness his fur had lost its silky sheen. It had seemed to her to be the animal's equivalent of lividity. A tear left her eye. The saddest thing for her had been leaving Toby there. Since she had no backyard or any kind of garden, she had to leave his body at the vet. It would have been burned by now… No traces left that her precious tabby had ever existed.

She wiped the tears away and took a sip of her tea and willed the hot liquid to calm her down. She needed to occupy herself with something; otherwise she would only sit in her flat the whole day long, pitying herself. But what could she do?

Suddenly the doorbell rang. Molly looked at the door, as if doing so would tell her who was on the other side. She didn't expect anyone. Maybe it was Mary coming over to cheer her up? The pathologist got up and walked to the door. For the hundredth time she cursed mentally for not having a peephole.

As she opened the door and saw who was standing outside she wished not only for a peephole but for another outfit than her pyjamas. Furthermore she wished she'd done her hair, put on some make up or looked different altogether – tall, elegant, bigger breasts and a bigger mouth would have been nice.
But since she did not, she only heard the words, "Sherlock, what are you doing here?" leaving said small mouth. She noticed the quick once-over he gave her with which he deduced everything about her day so far, she was sure. Then he strode past her into the flat.

After a moment's hesitation she closed the door and turned around towards him. He was standing beside the couch.
She tried again, "Are you ok?" She couldn't keep the worry out of her voice.
His tone didn't give anything away; neither did his expression as he spoke. "Sure. But apparently you're not. So get dressed. I need you to come with me."
She wanted to ask more questions, but his stance told her it was not a subject for debate. Just minutes ago she had wanted a task, hadn't she? Being on a case with Sherlock would be a good distraction. There wasn't anything more distracting than Sherlock Holmes, was there?

"Ok," was all she said, as she went into her bedroom to get ready.

TBC