Doing nothing at school.

That's American high school system for you.

Wish I could stay home and write so then these updates wouldn't take so long.

lol.

Oh, yeah...and I forgot to mention...

The reason James was Sherlock's tutor was because my homie Wikipedia told me there was this story where Moriarty was fake and John just got that name because Sherlock went to rehab or something and told him to tell people he was gone for three years because of his math tutor.

Or something like that.

lol, again.

"..the first thing you'll notice is the smell." he told her on 'orientation day', "...other than seeing the dead bodies, of course, is their smell. It's just overwhelming...at first."

"It doesn't bother me..." she replied.

Molly followed the old man down the stairs, from where they had met at the front desk near the entrance to St. Bartholomew's, into the dim basement hallway, through a few heavy doors that he didn't hold open for her and then turned the corner into their destination.

The morgue.

The first thing that Molly noticed, actually, was the cold.

She shivered.

"Put this on." The old man told her, pulling a white labcoat off the hook by the door and pushing it into her hands.

There was also another light switch by the hook, but he didn't bother flipping it on, instead continuing to stride into the room.

Molly struggled to get the labcoat on while hurrying after him further into the room.

It wasn't warm and it was easily stained. So what was its purpose? Molly didn't ask.

She just did as she was told; she just did as she had always done.

There was a body, torso cut wide open and skin folded to reveal red insides, lying mid examination on the metal table.

"Smell it now?" The old man asked, "Does it bother you now?"

Molly shook her head.

"No." She said when she remembered that the old man wasn't looking at her and was standing next to the table, gazing down at the corpse.

"You don't smell it…?" he asked, "…or it doesn't bother you…?"

"…I…It doesn't bother me." Molly answered.

"You'll just watch me for today." The old man stated, walking around the gray table to stand on its other side so that Molly could see his face, "I know you'll say you already know how to do this, I know you'll say they taught you this in medical school and you graduated with 'top marks' or whatever and that's why you were hired, after all, that's what they all say…But we do things differently here. Here we do things my way. And so you'll have to learn again."

The old man lifted his tools as if they were utensils, cutting into the body as if he was savoring a choice steak.

Molly watched.

"You'll get used to it, you know..." the old man hummed, after a while of silent work, not glancing up at her.

"I know." Molly accepted, quietly, studying his technique.

"You really will." He insisted, while operating, "You'll get used to it...and one day you won't even notice it at all and then you won't even notice that you're not even noticing it..."

Molly nodded again and then remembered again that he wasn't looking at her.

But before she could voice her accordance, the old man did.

"It's really funny, you know…" he chuckled, as if talking to the opened corpse below him, "what a person can get used to...you can get used to almost anything...No. Not even 'almost'. You can get used to anything. Anything. You just build up a tolerance for it, whatever it is, be...and you will, too. To the bodies. To the blood. To the smell...You will...unless, that is, you quit within the first five years like most people that take this job."

"I won't." Molly asserted, speaking louder and more assuredly than she had ever to someone that she had just met.

"Won't get used to it…?" the old man asked, "…or you won't quit?"

"I won't quit." Molly declared.

And then the old man looked up at her. Finally looked at her.

"Then you will." He said, "You will get used to it."

"John, I'll be at the morgue seeing about the case..."

"Be nice."

"…What?"

"Be nice. To Molly..."

"...alright...?"

"I'm serious, Sherlock, be nice. You're always taking advantage of her. One day she might notice-"

"Unlikely. She's hardly most perceptive of-"

"Sherlock, one day she night notice, get tired of it and then stop helping you at all."

"And you care because?That would be less nonfood items in the fridge..."

"I'm serious. Just. be. nice. You never know how much a person can take...before they break."

"Beautiful poetry, John."

"I'm serious. Be nice.Just be nice."

"Fine, John, I'll 'be nice', I'll be nice…"

And so he was.

(...or at least he tried to be.)

"It's not you." Sherlock stated.

Molly had been staring at him from the doorway to the lab where Sherlock was focusing a microscope an evidence sample had 'borrowed' from the latest crime scene.

She was waiting to bare witness to another one of his brilliant, spontaneous insights.

She hadn't even realized that he'd realized she was there.

Normally he never did.

"…huh?" Molly squeaked, jumping because his voice (attention) had startled her, "…um, what do you mean?"

"It's not you." Sherlock repeated, "…It's yoursmell."

"My smell…?" Molly questioned, stepping into the room and raising an eyebrow.

Her tone was accusatory, but rightfully so.

"Well not your smell, technically…." Sherlock clarified, "The smell."

"What smell?" Molly demanded, folding her arms, "…and what do you mean 'it's not' me?"

"What I mean," Sherlock began, turning to her, "is that it's 'not you'-isn't that how people say it? 'it's not you, it's me'?...of course, it's not 'me', actually and I don't mean 'me' as in me. I just mean in general. Men in general. And it's not them—although that's probably what they say 'it's not you, Molly, it's me'…But it's not you either. It's the smell. I just thought you should know that. It's the smell."

"…what?" Molly asked, thoroughly confused.

"Well you are having trouble with men, right?" Sherlock checked, "Boyfriends, relationships—or lack thereof. Pointless things like that."

"…no, I'm n—"

"You are. Good."

" 'Good'?"

"As I was saying, it's not your fault you're having these problems. It's not you…it's the smell. The smell of dead."

"What—"

"Human attraction is partially based on pheromones, chemicals—smell. That's the reason you're having difficulty finding a mate—I mean 'boyfriend'—"

"I'm not having trouble finding—"

"Because of the smell. The smell of dead. People find other people's scents either attractive or unattractive, subconsciously, because a person's unique body odor indicates their health as well as their genetic—uh, romantic compatibility with others…and you, Molly, smell like dead. It's only natural that men avoid you."

"They don't avoid—"

"It's human nature to recoil away from death. Most likely they don't even realize why they don't want you. And neither did you. So I'm telling you. I'm telling you so you'll know it's not your fault; it's not you. Perhaps now you'll 'feel better', which is my goal in informing you of this…it's that 'being nice' thing John's always talking about, ridiculous, really, but I suppose it is useful sometimes. Regardless, there are methods to mask the smell of decomposition. Onions have an odor powerful enough to distract from the scent of death…

Sherlock's words trailed off when he saw Molly standing there in front of him…angry.

She wasn't even trying to hide it.

Her eyebrows were furrowed, her arms were folded and her hands were even in tight fists.

Molly's mouth opened as if she was going to shout something…

…but then it closed and she sighed.

"Thanks, Sherlock." She forced a something close to a smile, "I'll keep that in mind…And now I'll let you get back to work. I've got to get back to mine, after all."

Molly turned and walked out of the room… not too quickly, though, because that would be rude.

And just because Sherlock was rude did not mean she had to be.

Besides, Molly was used to Sherlock behaving this way. It was just what he did.

Sherlock, apparently, had never learned (or if he had, he had 'deleted') the automatic, practiced politeness that Molly (and most people) did automatically, ingrained from such a young age that it seemed almost inherent, like they just knew.

Sherlock was rude.

It was 'him'.

But wasn't his fault.

…and what if Sherlock had been trying to be 'nice' and just simply didn't understand how.

Molly felt almost sorry for him, actually, him who knew everything not 'knowing any better'.

That's why she tolerated Sherlock, despite his personality.

(…and what if that meant Jim was wrong? That he had been wrong in saying Molly only put up with Sherlock because he was a genius (implying, of course, that she put up with Jim even though he was a criminal—Molly wasn't stupid) and that Molly really put up with Sherlock even though he was rude? And if it was right that Jim had been wrong…what did that mean?)

"...Jim?"

The question was vague and hesitant; her voice was soft and high.

She didn't know if he could even hear her.

She could see him.

It was dark but the city's lights snuck in the through the floor-length, un-curtained window.

His back was turned from her as he lay on his side, she guessed his eyes were probably closed too.

It was almost one AM, after all.

Maybe he was even trying to sleep….

(She didn't often see him sleep and when she thought she did she was never really sure (except for that one time she had used a sedative on him) especially because he would open his eyes and catch her staring.)

"…Molly?"

He was awake.

He had mimicked her voice, exaggeratedly, with his reply.

But he didn't turn to face her and so she gazed at the back of his (and his bare back) trying to imagine his facial expression.

"Do I...um...smell bad?"

"What?"

It had been a snort of laughter but she saw his shoulders tighten (should she touch them? Should she rub his back so he could relax? Should she touch him?).

"Do I smell bad? Do I smell like 'dead'...?"

"You've been talking to Sherlock, haven't you..."

She was just reaching out, tentatively (Why was this more difficult, why did he always have to be the one to initiate? So she'd have an excuse? So it wouldn't be her idea, so it wouldn't be her fault…) raising an arm towards his back, when he sighed and his shoulders fell.

Then he rolled over to lie on his back. His eyes were closed.

She was very small, curled up and facing him.

"No—yes—how did you—oh nevermind…"

"Smell like 'dead'? No one else talks like that, love, no one else but Sherlock."

"He just came to the morgue, today. For a case. I wasn't visiting him or anything, I was just—"

"I'm not jealous."

Jealous.

(His words, not hers.)

"I didn't say—"

But he was laughing again. Eyes still closed.

"And I'venever noticed it, the smell…."

"Oh, okay."

"...but then again, I'm kinda used to it, don't you think? The smell of 'dead'..."

He folded his arms behind his head.

"...oh. Right. So—"

"But why should it matter, anyway? It doesn't bother me. Does it bother you?"

"No...I mean, I'm used to it, too, I suppose..."

She hugged her pillow, closing her eyes.

"Then why do you care?"

She felt the wind and her eyes opened. He was sitting up now, and glaring at her with a gaze as sharp as his voice.

She sat up too, facing him, and shook her head.

"…I don't. I don't care."

"Why bring it up, then?"

"I don't know. I was just wondering, I guess..."

He was still glaring and so she looked down at her hands.

Opening his nostrils wide and closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath of air that caused his chest to rise.

"…Smells good."

"What does?"

The question was hesitant, her voice was high (innocent, as if she didn't have a suspicion to what the answer might be (because she wanted him to say it. She wanted him to tell her)).

He shut his eyes and sighed, smiling and sinking down into the sheets.

"…the smell of dead." He said.

As always, it was in Geneva, Switzerland, by the Alps, that the most powerful people met for a meeting (Gods on Olympus).

This time 'theme' of this particular 'party' was the continuing worldwide recession.

…officially, at least.

In reality, the highest ranking members of their respective governments were gathering to discuss the impending nuclear crisis.

(Another day, another nuclear threat.)

That was why Mycroft Holmes was there.

Still, the committee still had to keep up appearances of their stated purpose for assembling and talk economic policy.

And that was why Professor James Moriarty was there.

…officially, at least.

Mycroft watched his 'old college buddy' give a (complicated, yet brilliant and fascinating (if one could understand it and stay awake)) sermon about the world's interconnected economies, exchange rates, and inflation.

If this man controlled all the world's money then there wouldn't be a financial crisis, Mycroft decided.

He wondered why James had retired from his lucrative business career to teach at some no-name university in unappreciated obscurity.

What a waste.

…maybe the guy was just lazy, Mycroft considered.

James was still incredibly rich, of course, allowing his shareholdings in diversified stock multiply his hundreds of millions.

(Another day, another (million) dollar(s).)

An all had to do is just lecture to his a room of glazed eyes (much like he was doing now).

Pretty comfortable, actually.

And then Mycroft didn't wonder anymore.

It was all very beautiful, the mountains surrounding the city and the building's polished stone architecture, but Mycroft preferred to survey the other people in the auditorium.

The hundred or so people sat according to country, countries grouped according to geographic regions (representatives from neighboring warring countries forced to tolerate each other for the time being).

When everyone speaking had given their speeches, the committee then migrated into the next room where the food and small talk would be made (and the pictures would be taken and the people would be quoted, by the eagerly waiting media personnel).

"Good talk." Mycroft complimented, finding James at the front of the now (all but) empty room, packing up his notecards and laptop.

They shook hands and then James reached for his briefcase.

"Nobody listens." James replied, "Nobody ever listens."

"Oh yes, that's right." Mycroft remembered, "You warned them. As early as 2006 you warned them….but nobody listened."

James sighed, shrugged and then smiled unenthusiastically.

"I'm used to it." He said.

Mycroft matched his expression.

They two of them stepped down from the shiny-finished wooden stage and began to walk, slowly, the length of the auditorium (postponing (and dreading) their public appearance as long as possible).

"But that's not what this is about, the economy." James continued, "So I'll forgive them for not paying attention. My words, they were only filler, meaningless—"

"Still true, though." Mycroft interrupted, "Give yourself some credit."

"True, yes, but pointless all the same." James agreed, "What we really need to discuss is the 'problem'—once the prying eyes and ears are all gone."

"Indeed." Mycroft nodded, "This growing threat, it's…difficult."

"Yes, we were young during the Cold War," James recounted, stopping and facing Mycroft who also stopped and face him, "we never truly understood its gravity. We were…we were used to it. But I wonder how those in our position then, those who did understand, coped."

"I suppose they just got 'used to it' as well." Mycroft reasoned.

"It's funny what people can get used to." James responded.

He was about to continue to walk when Mycroft spoke.

"It's funny about your name, too."

James halted and turned around to look back at Mycroft, who might have actually been smirking (however, 'politely').

"We're not all so lucky as to have such unique names like 'Mycroft'." James stated.

"I assure you it was not so 'lucky' during primary school." Mycroft chuckled lightly, and James joined him.

"Well now, obviously, it is my name that is unlucky." He stated, "I'm the subject of much teasing by my own students…they don't understand that James Moriarty is really a reasonably common name. Of course, it's not the most common. But I did run the numbers. The probability of having the names 'James Moriarty' is only in the thousands—which is actually quite likely in such a populous city as London, let alone in the entire United Kingdom. I'm sure there are many other men sharing my struggle ever since that ridiculous, incompetent criminal went to trial…and was acquitted! Really, Mr. Holmes, I have faith in the British government anymore. You're simply not doing your jobs…"

James then laughed again, just to make sure Mycroft knew he was joking.

Mycroft smiled.

"I can't speak for the rest of the minor state employees," he replied, "but I am doing my job. And very well, too, if I do say so myself. I happened to have 'warned them' about your namesake as earlier as three years ago—not that anyone listened. And I've had every single James Moriarty on surveillance ever since I first heard the name."

And then Mycroft didn't laugh, because he wasn't joking.

But James smiled, still.

"…speaking of namesakes," he said, "Don't you share name with that detective involved in the Moriarty criminal case, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, unfortunately." Mycroft sighed, "Another unlucky coincidence I've gotten used to."

And Molly didn't quit within the first five years and she did'get used to it'.

It was funny, so funny, what someone could get used to.

...like the smell of 'dead'...

...or the bodies...

Lined up, burned and maimed on the streets of your home country during its shattering civil war, or lying peacefully as if they were asleep in your home, before the word 'divorce' was dared spoken.

Molly had discovered the old man, one morning, on his own morgue table (which she then 'inherited') dead.

He had had a heart attack at sixty-seven, doing what he loved; his job.

She had been the one to find him, to do the post-mortem examination, to write the report...and to donate his body to science (Sherlock Holmes).

She hadn't even blinked.

It was funny what one could get used to.

Really, really, funny.

The next day molly arrived to work to find the morgue empty...all except for a small, gift wrapped with a bow, box resting on the metal table.

She approached it cautiously.

'To Molly'

…the card read.

She opened it.

It was a nice (expensive even) bottle of perfume.

'I thought it smelled almost as nice as you.'

…the note continued…

'Love, Sherlock'

Molly smiled, she couldn't help but smile.

How adorable.

Sherlock was trying to 'be nice'.

(And only an attempt by Sherlock to 'be nice' would be this (unwittingly) insulting and yet sweet at the same time.)

He felt bad for what he had done.

...and so had John Watson, apparently, since the message was scrawled in his handwriting.

This was silly.

Admittedly, so.

So silly… ridiculous even.

Here Molly was, getting dressed in the still steamy bathroom of the hotel room.

The hotel room where she knew Jim Moriarty was reclining on the bed inside, probably flipping through the channels of the high-tech personalized television screen (on which shepaid the inflated price for every ordered show everyday).

Yes, this was all ridiculous.

The hotel, the costs...and most importantly him.

Molly almost couldn't believe it.

It had been a week now that she and he had been 'clandestinely' meeting at the hotel and after a couple days of staying the night, rushing home in the morning changing clothes and then running (late) to work Molly had finally decided to just bring some clothes, just a change(half her (not very extensive) wardrobe), here for her own convenience and 'peace of mind'.

And then, of course, she had to decide whether to keep them in the drawers or in the closet (she got the drawers and Jim got the closet) and then whether to bring them into the bathroom when she wanted to put them on after her shower or leave them in the main room where she'd have to walk out into wrapped in a towel (complementary of the hotel) and change.

In front of him.

(…awkward…)

Molly had chosen first option.

Toweling herself off before pulling on her only slightly baggy khaki pants and a favorite shirt, Molly assessed her reflection in the fogged mirror.

(Normal. She looked normal. She looked like she always did. Nothing had changed (visibly). No one would know.)

And after putting on her clothes and make up, Molly noticed her purse sitting on the toilet seat. Inside was the gift from Sherlock (and John Watson).

The perfume.

She picked it up, spraying a few spritzes on.

Exiting the bathroom, (fully dressed (sans shoes) but hair still wet) Molly stepped (and only meant it to be briefly) into the main room where Jim indeed was lying on the bed, flipping channels.

"Well, I'm off to work now..." she told him, pulling on her white labcoat which had been tossed next on top of the dresser the night before (by Jim) and then folded later (by Molly).

Jim, turning to her, scrunched his nose (adorable) and sniffed a couple times.

"...what the hell is that smell?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?" Molly asked, stopping her journey towards the door and glancing back at him.

"That smell." Jim repeated, more accusingly, "What is it?"

It was the perfume, Molly realized, the gift... from Sherlock.

"I don't—"she began (pretending to smell the air and smell nothing) but was interrupted.

"Oh god, it's you, isn't it?" Jim groaned, rolling his eyes, "It's you. That smell. That putrid—"

"Putrid?"Molly exclaimed, with a (nervous) laugh, "It's just a bit of perfume!"

"Take it off." Jim ordered, watching the television screen again.

"What?" Molly cried, "Why?It's only—"

"Take it off." Jim insisted, muting the volume with the remote and turning back to Molly.

(Why was she being like this? Sherlock says one thing about her smelling like 'dead' and she starts putting on the perfume! Why did she care so much about what other people thought of her? Why did she care so much what Sherlock thought of her…?)

"I can't just 'take it off'…" Molly reasoned, shifting her weight back and forth from the leg to leg, "its perfume. It doesn't worklike that!'"

"Then go to the bathroom. Take a shower. And take it off." Jim told her as if his commands were the obvious course of action.

Then he stared at her expectantly.

She just stood there.

"I…" Molly began again, but again was interrupted.

"NOW!" Jim shouted.

"…I'll be late for work…" Molly complained, but she was already pulling her labcoat back off, folding it and replacing it where it had previously lain.

"Now, Molly." Jim repeated, even though he knew it wasn't necessary.

Molly sighed and trudged back into the bathroom.

She was used to this.

Jim was rude, yes, but that was just him.

She was used to it (used to him).

...maybe she even liked it (him).

When it was her father she had found, Molly had known that it was coming.

They all had.

They all knew, had known for months (almost a year, even), that he was going to die.

And they had gotten used to it.

When it was certain that he was going to die and there was nothing that anyone (the family, the doctors, god, Molly) could do, they put her father into hospice in their home.

It was there that dissolved into the bed he used to share with his wife (and Molly's mother before her).

Molly's stepmother had to work full-time now, Molly's older brother was somewhere else (away at university and not coming home, even for Christmas) and Molly's little sister was little, so young she didn't understand.

So Molly (who probably should have been in school much more often) cared for her father.

It was only natural that she had been the one to find him, finally dead.

She had expected it.

…but she hadn't expected it when it was her mother she had found.

She was used to her mother cooking but never eating, she was used to her mother's long afternoon naps.

She had thought that she was sleeping.

Her mother had looked so peaceful lying there on the couch and so Molly didn't want to disturb her.

It was only when it was past dinner time and Molly had gotten hungry that she went to wake her mother.

But her mother was somewhere else and the body was cold.

And Molly, she was so little that she didn't understand.

And by now, by the time Molly did understand, she was used to it.

Used to death and dead.

And it was funny, so funny what someone could get used to.

So how's this filler stuff working out for ya'll?

Like it or not?

...and do you want shorter updates more frequently or longer ones like every three/four days?