Warning: Molly discusses the results of an autopsy below. I don't think it's that bad, but if you're in the least bit squeamish, be wary.

"Hey, Molls!" Lestrade called out as soon as the morgue's double doors opened.

Molly looked up at the silver-haired detective and smiled. She'd just finished the autopsy on Mrs. Ruby Ackerman, and handed over the case file to the Detective Inspector. "Hello, Greg! You're in a good mood." She remarked, leaning in to offer a brief hug. They'd been friends for years, and were quite comfortable around each other.

He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the sound of the doors opening and footsteps hurriedly entering the room. They both turned to look, and sure enough, it was Sherlock, his coat flaring dramatically as he strode in while John followed at a much more subdued pace.

"Hello! Are you here for Mrs. Ackerman too?" Molly greeted them cheerfully, stepping away from Lestrade and walking over to them, blushing slightly at the sight of Sherlock. She'd remembered how she had squealed when she'd read that last text he'd sent her a couple of nights ago. She wasn't sure what she was expecting him to do when they again saw each other, but she was certainly not expecting this.

Sherlock was scowling at her, his eyebrows creased, a look of genuine hurt in his eyes. It only lasted for a few seconds, after which Sherlock was back to his usual cool demeanor. "Sorry to interrupt, Doctor Hooper, Lestrade." he said, walking over in the direction of the slab.

John threw Molly a confused look, to which Molly just shrugged her shoulders. If Lestrade noticed anything amiss, he did not let on.

Sherlock proceeded to unzip the body bag containing Mrs. Ackerman's corpse. "The tox report will confirm what I've been repeatedly telling Anderson." he said with usual vehemence, "This wasn't an accident. This was murder. Yes, she was found floating in the pool but she didn't drown. Doctor Hooper, kindly inform the Detective Inspector of your findings." He didn't even turn to look at her, merely gestured a hand in Molly's direction.

So it's back to Doctor Hooper now, is it? Molly cleared her throat, approaching the slab and pointing to the folder Lestrade held. "It's all there, Greg. She had fluid in her lungs, yes, but otherwise was severely dehydrated, her urine was acidic and granular, and her liver and kidneys are shot. All consistent with poisoning by acetylsalicylic acid." While she spoke, she stood next to Lestrade, leaning over to point out to him where he'd find the information in the file.

"What? Aspirin?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Couldn't that have been accidental overdose?"

Sherlock tutted, removing his scarf and flinging it haphazardly over a stool, his coat following. He stood with his hands clenched, jaw working furiously, and even John wondered at his temper. When Lestrade had insisted that they follow him from the Yard to the morgue, Sherlock had had to stop himself from grinning. John was used to his friend's sudden mood swings, but was at a loss as to what had caused this one.

"She lived in a home, Detective Inspector, where medicine is strictly regulated and properly administered by trained professionals. Why would an 80-year-old woman suffering from dementia be granted access to aspirin, of all things? Did she have a hang-over from all the drinking she did slumming with her friends in a pub the previous evening? And why should she be anywhere near the pool area? Residents like her were kept safe in the other wing of the facilities, to help prevent such a thing from happening. Think! She is a wealthy woman, without any relatives, yes, but surely someone would stand to gain from her death."

John chimed in, "I've seen her in the papers. She was the one who had willed her entire life's savings to a shelter for cats."

Molly squeaked, "Oh, so that's why her name sounded so familiar! She was the Crazy Cat Lady!"

Lestrade turned to her, realization dawning, "What? That's her? The one you were telling me about the other day?" At Molly's nod, he shook his head, amused. "Sorry about your hero, Molls."

"RIGHT." Sherlock said, louder than strictly necessary, letting the 'r' roll and prolonging the 't'. "Get your least incompetent men down there and interview the staff. Pay particular attention to those who had been hired within the last month. Even you couldn't possibly miss the culprit."

Used to Sherlock's condescension, Lestrade merely shrugged, nodded to both of the men, and reached over to lightly grip Molly's arm before walking out of the morgue. Sherlock bristled at the sight.

John pursed his lips. "Why don't we interview the staff ourselves?" he looked up at the consulting detective to find his gaze locked on Molly, who had her back turned to them, busily closing up the body bag and putting away the case file Lestrade had left behind.

Sensing that his absence might be more helpful at this time, John cleared his throat and announced he was leaving. Saying his goodbyes to Molly, he quietly pulled on Sherlock's arm and whispered, "I have no idea what this is about, Sherlock, but you better behave."

"I'm not a child!" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Could've fooled me." John said, so that only Sherlock could hear, before marching out of the morgue. Heaven help you, Molly Hooper. He thought, just as the doors closed behind him.

Once John had gone, Sherlock walked over to his usual spot and sat down in front of a microscope, took out a small plastic bag from his pocket and began preparing slides. Molly paid him no mind, assuming that his mood will pass, and simply went on about her tasks for the day; sterilizing her tools and putting them away. Just as she was done setting aside her saw, the one she'd saved for last, she heard Sherlock cough loudly and repeatedly.

Frowning, Molly turned and walked towards him, stopping next to where he was seated. "Are you okay? Do you need a glass of water?"

She knows she shouldn't but the sight of Sherlock simultaneously coughing and trying to glare at her was so ridiculous, she had to fight the urge to laugh. When his coughing didn't stop, she moved toward her desk, took out one of the mugs he'd previously brought, and filled it with water from the carafe she kept filled so that she didn't have to go out whenever she got thirsty. She came back to hand it over to him. When he'd taken it, she stood behind him gently thumping his back, hoping to help alleviate whatever it is that got him started.

He frowned at the mug before quickly downing its contents, wincing as he fought to keep from coughing as he did so. After a while, it ceased, and he set the now empty mug beside the microscope. Molly moved to grab it, but was stopped by Sherlock's hand on her wrist.

"Did you choke on something?" Molly blurted out, not sure where this was going.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes on her wrist. "Nicotine gum."

She made a weak attempt at humour. "You better keep to your patches, then." This is awkward. Really awkward. Really, really awkward. Molly's heart was racing. She was sure Sherlock could tell. "What was that about? Having a bad day?" she added, scrambling to fill the silence. "You're more..." when Sherlock's gaze met hers, she hesitated a moment before continuing. "...uhm, well, more exasperated today than usual."

Sherlock's scowl returned, and he let her hand go. Standing up, he picked the mug up once again and made a show of examining it closely. "You were embracing Lestrade." He said simply, as if that explained everything.

No. You can't be... Molly didn't let herself finish the thought and instead asked out loud, "Uhm, yes, Sherlock. He's my friend. So?"

Sherlock didn't look at her, "You don't hug me." his nose crinkled in irritation. "Or John." He added hastily, his expression betraying that he didn't think Molly hugging John was any better.

"Greg and I have known each other for a long time, Sherlock. He even worked under my father." Before his sickness, Molly's father had been a detective himself, which had helped foster Molly's interest in pathology. "He and Dad used to go out for a pint after work, and when dad...well, Greg helped through all that."

"But you've known me long enough." Sherlock retorted.

"Yes, but you don't like that stuff." Molly pointed out, a hand on her hip and a frown on her face.

Sherlock gave up on the mug and instead started pacing. "That doesn't preclude the fact that I might want one from you! I told you, Molly. I am willing to change. You know this isn't my area. But I've researched, listened to John ramble on and on about how he had managed to date so many women over the years, and I still don't know whether I'm doing this right or not. You have to at least give me a hint!"

When he turned away from her to resume his pacing, Molly could no longer hold herself back. She quickly walked over to the agitated man and hugged him from behind, clasping her hands over his stomach and leaning her head against his back. "Is this hint enough?"

Taken aback, Sherlock stopped in his tracks, letting his hands hang awkwardly by his side. He sighed, not quite sure how to react.

"I told you, Sherlock. I don't want to change you." Molly chuckled, and Sherlock reveled at the sensation it brought. "If you change, I'd rather it was because you were experiencing personal growth, not because you think it would please me. And also," she tightened her grip, "you've been very sweet; cooking dinner and then bringing it over here, walking me home, getting lunch delivered, sending texts. But I don't want you to do it if it makes you uncomfortable. You're my friend first, and whatever happens next, whatever this is? I'd like for us to be still be ourselves through it."

All was silent for several moments as they both let that sink in. The figure they cut was a startling contrast of warmth against the cold sterility of the morgue.

Molly was about to let go of her hold when Sherlock moved, putting both of his hands over hers, leaning back into her embrace. "Thank you, Molly." He said quietly.

"You're welcome." she whispered back.

That night, Molly lay in bed unable to sleep. She still couldn't believe she'd had the guts to do what she did. Still, Molly decided, I would do it again in a heartbeat. She lifted her hands out above her, staring at them. She couldn't believe how they could look the same and at yet feel so...different. She ignored the part of her mind that suggested the word "empty".

Sherlock, for his part, lay on the sitting room couch, eyes closed with his hands beneath his chin, the need for nicotine forgotten. All he focused on was cataloging the feel of Molly's hug and her breath on his back. He had always liked lingering in his mind palace, but he found that the rooms had become more pleasant, more welcoming, than before.

When John returned home from Mary's, he found his flatmate still on the couch, his hands clasped on his stomach, sound asleep.

Author's Note: I just read over the previous chapters I've uploaded and have found, to my horror, a plethora of typos, grammatical errors and misplaced punctuation marks. I will not re-upload any of these, mainly because I think it's too late for it anyway, and I'd rather move this story along. :)

I *think* I might add another chapter this week, I can't seem to stop thinking about what's going to happen next.

Once again, thank you for your reviews, and I'm looking forward to learning what you think about this chapter, and the story so far.

Ta,

~Liberi Ad Somnia