Like Clockwork

"Is Molly really the right person to be doing medicals? She's more used to dead people. It's bound to lower your standards."

-Mrs. Hudson, "The Lying Detective"

The thing about ambulance bays, Molly thinks, is that they are so unpredictable. Sometimes they are frantic with energy - sound and movement and high emotion building into one discordant triad. And at other times, they are quiet and empty and you'd never imagine that an hour before they housed all the hurried fervor of Life trying desperately to hang on to its own.

Molly is not sure if she is grateful to be waiting for Sherlock's ambulance to depart during a lull, or if she wishes more that there were something loud and pressing distracting her from what lies ahead.

Not that she wants someone to need an ambulance ride to the hospital! Oh, gosh – she has now, she supposes, mastered the art of putting one's foot in one's mouth, simply by thinking.

So Molly bounces on her toes beside the idling ambulance, biting her lip, eyes darting around as she waits for the driver to tell her she's ready to go.

She mentally runs through the list of things Sherlock has given her to do, in her part of the plan. Fully stocked ambulance and two recording devices in his Belstaff, which was waiting for him in the back – an obvious one in the pocket, another sewed into a button. A third, in John's cane – though Molly hadn't the foggiest idea how that would help, as John hadn't used the cane in years - and how Sherlock thought it would end up in hospital with him was anyone's guess. He'd wanted a fourth, a thin wire that would adhere to the seam beneath the lapels of his coat – but it was supposed to have arrived this morning, it hadn't, and Molly did not have the time, knowledge, or skill set to hunt such a thing down. She'd considered texting Sherlock about it, but he'd been very clear that he was not to be contacted on the day of the plan.

"Ready, Doctor?" The EMT nods to Molly, breaking her out of her endless loop of ticking boxes on an invisible list.

Molly squares her shoulders and flashes her a brief, uncertain smile. "Yes - yes thanks."

"Right, then. Riding in back or up front, on the way there?"

"Oh – um, up front, I suppose -"

The paramedic nods, locks the back doors, and opens the passenger door for Molly, before moving around to the other side of the vehicle and climbing into the driver's seat.

The engine revs and Molly is about to hoist herself up into the passenger's side, when a voice calls "Ey – wai', miss- " and a hand grabs her wrist.

She startles and looks to its origin, and a scruffy man in scrubs with a surgical mask in place over his nose and mouth quickly releases her arm. She steps off of the riser, and stands next to the ambulance, peering closer in disbelief. "Billy?" She whispers incredulously.

He gives her a hard look and pulls his face mask down in clear annoyance. "Well, wha' was the point of wearin' this, then, if you're jus' gonna blow my cover?"

Molly purses her lips, trying to tame her wildly beating heart. "You do know that most doctors have neatly trimmed facial hair, Billy, and don't wear their surgical masks in the car park."

He crosses his arms and scowls. "I'll 'ave you know-"

Molly darts a quick glance around before interrupting. "What was it you're here for, Billy?"

"Ah – righ'." He gives a sharp nod and pulls the mask back over his face, and Molly can't help the amused twitch of her lips, though she keeps her stern look focused on the strangely endearing, ridiculous man in front of her.

" I'fink you dropped this," he says, fumbling a small, thin plastic bag off from around his wrist - the sort you'd find in a cosmetics store when the only thing you're buying is mascara or lipstick. He holds it out impatiently and gives it a little shake.

Molly frowns for a split second before her eyebrows rise in understanding. The last recorder. "Billy, why not just tell me that it's-"

"Ssshhhhhh!" He hisses, glaring at her.

She blinks, confused.

He inclines his head toward the waiting ambulance. "Shezza 'ad a feelin' 'is brother might've…you know. Better be safe 'n sorry." He waggles an eyebrow cryptically.

Molly raises an eyebrow, but she makes no further argument. "Right. Thanks for the lipstick, Billy."

Knowing she'll have to multitask and adhere the wire to the lapels on her ride with Sherlock (shouldn't take more than a few minutes), she takes the bag and goes to fold it over and put it in the oversized pocket of her lab coat.

Once again, however – Billy Wiggins clears his throat and gives his head a miniscule shake before tilting it toward the open ambulance door, where the EMT is patiently waiting for Molly to ride shotgun.

Molly's brows draw together – now, apparently, she couldn't even put the thing in her pocket? She'd give him that there was a chance it could fall out, but really? Even if Sherlock was right and the driver made a report to Mycroft – what would seeing a single recording device tell them? That Sherlock was planning to record something? And darn women's pants pockets are never big enough to hold a razor-thin phone, let alone to hide a coiled wiry recording device…thing. Then where the heck was she supposed to hide it?

"I thought you were ready, doctor?" The paramedic calls, reminding her that to idle much longer would be a waste of gas and carbon emissions.

Sod it. Frayed nerves provoking her to carelessness, Molly turns slightly toward the ambulance wall, out of sight of the driver and shielded from onlookers by Sherlock's druggist-turned-delivery boy. She pulls the wire out of the cosmetics bag, taking a few sparse seconds to look it over. It is about as wide as a hairpin, wound into a loop the width of pencil and encased in a flimsy plastic cover of its own, along with a thin, flat piece of plastic and metal that Molly assumes it must transmit to. All together, the plastic sheeting is about the size and thickness of a CD case. She then quickly shoves the crumpled bag in her lab coat pocket before stuffing the packaging with the thin, coiled wire down her shirt. She fumbles awkwardly for a moment, tugging her shirt and moving the wire down until it sits below and off to the side of her left breast, resting just above the waistline to her pants. She readjusts her blouse, making sure it is still tucked in, adjusts her cardigan and lab coat, and then gives her messenger a winning, flustered smile.

"Well, that's that, then, isn't it. Thank you."

Billy blinks in shock. "I don' fink that's exactly wha' Shezza had in mind."

"Well, too bad for Shezza." Molly shakes her head once and climbs into the passengers seat, apologizing for the delay and shutting the door before checking the ambulance's GPS to be sure (for the fifth time) that the address they are traveling to is correct.

They travel without sirens, and Molly is grateful for the lack of assault on her ear drums. Nervousness causes her to jiggle her right leg up and down and pick at the cuffs of her lab coat. The flimsy plastic cover encasing the hidden wire is starting to stick uncomfortably to her torso, and she wishes she'd thought to just tell the driver she'd changed her mind and wanted to ride in the back. She hasn't frequently traveled to this part of the metropolitan area, and it is getting prettier as they go, from what she can tell on the highway. Still, most of it passes by her faraway eyes without committing any of it to memory, so lost is she in her thoughts.

After a few moments, Molly pulls out her phone, and opens her text messages. She smiles a pinched, relieved sort of smile as she clicks on Sherlock's name, and the texts from the past fortnight appear to reassure her that she is, in fact, not crazy, and that he is still alive.

Need your help. – SH

Baker Street. - SH

Alive. -SH

Alive. -SH

Alive. -SH

Still alive. -SH

Living. -SH

Existing. -SH

Breathing. -SH

Bored. -SH

Dead. -SH

On the same day, less than five minutes later –

Joking. Don't call 'reinforcements'. –SH

Flourishing. -SH

Thriving. -SH

Present. –SH

Alive. –SH

See you tomorrow. –SH

Each word drives a drum beat into her heart and mind that he is alive – alive – alive – at least for today.

She closes her eyes and leans back into the seat, focusing on breathing – in, and out, even and measured – alive, alive, alive.

All too soon, they arrive in front of a lovely suburban ranch with an impressive red hotrod and two police cars parked haphazardly out front, and a helicopter flying overhead.

"Doctor?" The paramedic peers out the windshield, taking in the scene before her. "This the place, then?"

Molly looks to the roof of the ambulance, trying to draw strength from the shiny metal interior. "Yes," she sighs, and it comes from a place deep within her soul. "Yes, this is the place."

And Molly makes her way to the entrance and rings the doorbell, knowing – and yet so uncertain of – what lies ahead.

John answers. He is tired and tense with anger and frustration, but he is alert and focused, involved in this – and it is more than she can say about anything else she's seen him experience since Mary died.

Their exchange is a blur to her, but luckily, John attributes her nerves and inability to say much of anything intelligible to her shock and disgust at Sherlock using again – not that she has much time to get a word in edgewise, in all of the chaos.

She follows a swaggering Sherlock back to the ambulance, knowing her part in the plan isn't half over.

She hoists herself into the back of the ambulance and pulls the door shut, and Sherlock has already given the next location to the ambulance driver before shutting the small window that separates them. He sits on the stretcher, bouncing slightly.

He offers her a manic grin, and her doctor's eyes take him in. Unshaven - sunken eyes – hollow cheeks – yellowish tint to the skin, with bruises and puncture marks peeking from beneath shirtsleeves – trembling hands, bouncing knees – heels tapping floor in irregular rhythms –

She hasn't even begun her examination, and she doesn't like what she sees. The ambulance lurches a bit as it begins its journey, and she reaches a hand out to the nearby wall to steady herself.

Sherlock's grin falls a fraction of an inch as he takes in her expression, and he leans forward conspiratorially. "Ah, but you must remember Molly-" he sweeps his arms out in a grand gesture – "that all the world's a stage, and – I've written the play." He gives her a smug smirk.

He definitely is not faking this high – although he does seem to be relatively in possession of his faculties. Molly sighs. "Get undressed, Sherlock."

His smirk does not leave his face, but he raises his eyebrows in rogueish concern. "What, no foreplay doctor?" Still, he begins unbuttoning his shirt with a dexterity that surprises Molly, for all the shaking his hands were doing seconds ago.

"You wanted a full medical, so you're getting one." Although Sherlock suggested it, she is not going to allow him to change his mind in favor of a quick once-over. They need to know the extent of the damage to his body, so that they know exactly what solution to arrange to have placed in his IV, should he end up in a hospital bed and at Culverton's mercy.

She swallows and turns to the ambulance's well stocked cabinets, before a corner of the wire's packaging pokes her in the ribs. Damn. She pulls off her lab coat and cardigan, throwing them beside Sherlock's Belstaff on the bench. She attempts to just thread the recording device through the gap between buttons, but finds that it just won't bend enough to fit.

She bunches some of the fabric from her blouse in her fist, intending to untuck it, but images of the wire falling out and sliding beneath a cabinet or falling down her trousers are even worse than the idea of Sherlock making a comment for unfastening a few buttons.

An unwanted blush rising in her cheeks, she begins to unbutton her blouse as quickly as possible, nerves making her normally nimble hands fumble. She wants this over and done with, as quickly as possible.

She's almost got it when Sherlock's uncertain voice gives her pause.

"Molly?"

The plan.

The plan is finally coming together, each piece fitting together like the finest teeth on the cogs in clockwork, ticking along in perfect time - each unwitting thespian taking the stage in predictable routine, playing their part to unsuspecting perfection.

Sherlock is about as high on his abilities to predict the every action and reaction of the people in his life as he is on the actual cocktail that he and Billy created for him just hours ago.

Never mind that his fingers continue shaking after his purposeful demonstration for John, or that the muscles in his back and chest spasm occasionally, or that his mind jumps and skips and refocuses with a ferocity that creates a dull ache just behind his eyes.

He has been working so close to the edge, and he does not dwell on how much longer he can stay the course without falling dangerously over it.

It is almost over, now.

He has already taken off his shirt and belt and has begun to unbutton his slacks when he looks up, and the shock of Molly Hooper unbuttoning her blouse in front of him makes him sit down, hard, on the stretcher behind him.

In all the time they've spent together – all the nights he's spent in her bedroom, all the times he's broken into her flat unexpectedly – she has always maintained the highest measure of modesty. The least he's ever seen her in is a form-fitting T-shirt and pajama shorts. He tries to find an explanation as to why she would suddenly forgo that modesty here and now, because this – this was not part of the script. She is improvising, and it causes his mind to shift the spotlight of his masterful performance onto her.

She is facing away from him, one leg and hip pressing hard against the ambulance's supply shelves to keep her balance. All he can see is - (though he's not trying to see, he tells himself harshly - it's just very close quarters, and he is attempting to deduce why she would experience the urge to disrobe before him) – she's only gone halfway down, and all he can see is a faded taupe bra strap taut on her freckled shoulder and the gentle curve of her chest before she reaches into her shirt, down past her breasts, and frowns. Her brows draw together in concentration before his voice gives her pause.

"Mmm-olly?" He draws out her name, tone uncertain and warning. It concerns him that he cannot immediately brush this off, that he cannot dismiss this reel of images as unimportant.

At his voice, a flush creeps down her neck. He swallows, and his eyes narrow, blinking, seeking to focus elsewhere, but they keep darting back to her.

She quickly grasps what she is searching for, and draws her hand out, half-heartedly waving the last recording device into his line of vision.

She does not see it, but his face visibly relaxes with relief and understanding. The wire.

Her voice is indignation masking the slightest of embarrassments. "Your drug dealer's the one who said I had to hide it!" She grips her blouse closed with her free hand, turning slightly and fumbling with the package, tucking it carefully into a cranny on the shelf beside her.

"He's a chemist, not a dealer," Sherlock corrects automatically. Button up, Molly. She is distracting, and the fact is not one he wants to dwell on. "And why not just put it in your pocket?" He sounds acerbic, now, but it's better than uncertain. He needs confidence oozing out of every pore, for the rest of his act today.

Luckily, she has haphazardly buttoned up her blouse, swaying slightly as the ambulance makes its way through a round-about. In her haste, the buttons don't match up exactly, and he'd like to fix them – like her to fix them – of course – but it's a background thought, and it doesn't matter at the moment.

She gives him a hard look, or tries to - but her lips are still twitching awkwardly, the way they used to when he'd given her a compliment and she was hit with a wave of self-consciousness that he'd noticed her. She crosses her arms across her chest, and it's a coping mechanism – but it works, because when she addresses him, the embarrassment has faded, and her voice is strong and irritated.

"Because, Sherlock Holmes – women's pants pockets aren't made wide enough to hold an iPhone, let alone a pre-packaged high tech spy device, and when I tried to put it in my lab coat, Mr. Wiggins acted like the mere sight of a recording device in my pocket would alert Mycroft to your 'secret plan' and ruin everything."

"Who would even see it?" He asks skeptically, pulling a face.

Molly gestures to the closed window that separates them from the driver.

Sherlock's brows draw together. "Marie? She's one of mine. I intercepted Mycroft's driver last night."

Molly closes her eyes. "Of course you did."

Sherlock shakes his head, peering at her. "Still don't understand why you wouldn't've just put it in your pocket. Could have had a nice chat with Marie about how it was none of her business, if it came to that." His words are fast and deliberate.

"Well Billy was the one who showed up last second, looking like an extra from the set of Grey's Anatomy, and playing James Bond!"

"James Bond?" Sherlock asks, now genuinely confused.

"Yes, James Bond, you know – double – oh – seven? Secret agent in Her Majesty's service? He was wearing scrubs and a surgical mask, Sherlock. In the car park."

Sherlock's face suddenly relaxes into a very amused smirk. "Scrubs and a surgical mask?"

"Yes!" She exclaims crossly, and he cannot help the amused smile threatening on his face.

It has caused her undue stress, and he should feel badly about that, but he is so relieved that her cause for nearly baring herself is something so – mundane, so easily filed away and forgotten, that he can't help it. He raises his eyebrows in shared camaraderie, knowing she'll get the joke – she'll understand, as she always does – "I told him to be discreet, Molly."

And now she's biting her lip, trying to keep a smile at bay herself. They stare at each other for a split second, lips pressed together and eyes bright, before Molly breaks down and snorts.

"Well, apparently he thought discreet meant treating everyone around him like some sort of super spy."

And Sherlock lets out a short burst of laughter, and it's not that funny – it's really not – but he hasn't laughed – hasn't properly laughed – since before Mary died, and he thinks – neither has Molly – and he can't help it – he grins at her. "And you recognized him right off?"

Molly nods, tense smile slowly giving way to a more genuine article – "Oh, right away. He was very put off."

The serious tone of her voice makes him laugh louder, and it feels glorious – a brief burst of endorphins, worming their way through his weary nervous system, lifting him up and moving him further from the edge, and he thinks he'll steal this moment – this brief intermission – before he pushes himself through the final act.

And Molly coughs to cover up a laugh of her own, but she doesn't succeed for long. "He even-" she giggles briefly, and another rush of endorphins floods his system and lifts the corners of his mouth, tugging his heart up along with them – "he even said 'I think you dropped this'." Her voice drops down in a gravelly imitation of Billy's, and there is a split second of silence before they both burst into laughter.

"-and – and that you suspected Mycroft of placing the driver as a spy-" she presses the back of her hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh again, because though it was ridiculous – she believed him, too.

"-So your only logical course of action was to stuff it down your shirt?" He's poking fun at her now, but she doesn't mind – she's shaking her head, smiling to herself, before –

"We were running out of time!"

Their faces mirror each other as the words leave her lips – expressions freezing for a moment, taking in the sober reminder and applying it to their present situation – mouths turn down, and eyes blink, returning to the seriousness of the task at hand.

And the short interlude ends, and the actors resume playing their characters, and that mantle is heavier, now, than it was before. He's not sure he likes this metaphor any longer.

He quickly finishes undressing, covering himself with the sheet Molly has left folded at the end of the stretcher, and he notices, suddenly – that her lips are chapped, and that there are dark circles under her own eyes, and how dry and pale her skin is, as she hands him a bottle of water.

"Drink it," she orders softly, and her hands are busy, ripping the plastic packaging off of the wire recorder, and peeling off the adhesive to carefully wind it around his turned-up-lapels.

"Mmm, don't think so, doctor." He flashes her a half-hearted grin that quickly falls back into a look of concentration. "Can't have me interrupting my performance to take a wee."

"Well, you could certainly use to wee in a few jars, again," she fires back, more focused on finishing her task. She gently folds the collar of his coat down again, smoothing it into place, and holds up the small, square receiver. "You need to hydrate. There's toxic sludge pumping through your veins. Balance it out. Where d'you want this?" A slight tremble in her voice is the only indication that she worries, for him.

"Inside left pocket." He obliges her and unscrews the lid, taking a few long swigs of water before closing the cap again.

She finishes with the recorder and shifts into doctor mode, not bothering to put her cardigan on again under her lab coat, using copious amounts of hand sanitizer before pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves. She takes out a stethoscope, thermometer, and sphygmomanometer, arranging an array of other tools with efficiency and precision before turning to him to begin the exam.

"Pity this wasn't on Friday," she murmurs. "Then you'd be in your birthday suit on your actual birthday." He still can't believe she'd pieced together his birth date in the time he'd been away. She'd threatened to withhold lab privileges when he returned unless he confirmed that she was correct, and every year since, she's shared a cake with him. He's secretly very pleased that she remembers him without making it into a big production.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," he says absently, but their lips quirk up slightly.

"I've ordered a cake." She says evenly, and he peers at her questioningly.

"We don't have to meet at the shop, not if you don't want to -" she explains hesitantly, "but I thought – you might want to eat it – with John, and Rosie, since – since they'll be open to it, now."

"Very optimistic of you, Molly."

"It's your plan."

He looks at her then, and it surprises him how much her confidence in him warms him. But he needs to concentrate, now, so – "Shop it is. Might as well go all out. Not everyone gets to cheat death twice."

And her lips twitch satisfactorily, but she makes no reply as she begins his physical.

Sherlock is determined to refocus on his master plan, but the glee that he once felt at the success of his plan is waning. An effect of the comedown, he thinks gruffly.

He concentrates on the predicted outcomes of confrontation with Culverton Smith. Seven likely scenarios, the first being that he spins the accusation into some sensational news-story, laughing it off as a publicity stunt –

Molly's hands are gentle and professional as she takes his blood pressure and temperature. She then smooths the hair from his forehead, and examines his ears, eyes, nose, and throat. He obeys her practiced commands to turn his head and open his mouth, always peripherally aware of her presence, and of her soft touch on his skin.

The second being that he takes the accusation seriously, and takes Sherlock and John on a 'tour' to prove how mistaken they are, all the while allowing Sherlock further access to proof -

Molly palpates his skull and throat and makes notes on the clipboard behind her, then breaks out the stethoscope. It is cold on his chest, and he can feel her breath on his neck as she moves it around to his back. She pauses for just a moment, and he realizes, belatedly, that this is the closest she's been to his back and the scars he bears from his time away from London. He is grateful when she makes no comment, no sigh, no expression of surprise or sympathy. When she is done, she tells him to lie down. Goosebumps break out over his bare skin as she runs her hands down his arms, taking care with the bruised veins and raw injections sites in his arms. She presses lightly and clinically on his stomach, and he swallows. She skips over the sheet, for now, in favor of examining his legs and feet, and what he joked about not twenty minutes ago now feels too intimate for him to simply ignore. She cleans all of the open wounds she can see, but he won't allow her to put any salve or ointment on them. He has to maintain the façade, and drug addicts don't care much about infected injection sites.

The second being that Culverton takes the accusation seriously, and takes Sherlock and John on a 'tour' to prove – but – but, he's done that one, already –

"Ready for the last bit, Sherlock."

And he stands up, allowing the sheet to drop away, and Molly looks decidedly away after placing her hands where they need to be, and he doesn't even wait for her instructions before he turns his head and coughs.

"You can get dressed, now," she says quietly, face pinched, obviously distressed at what she's discovered throughout the physical. She removes her gloves and pulls on new ones. "Just leave one shirtsleeve undone so I can take some blood samples."

He quickly complies, watching her in rapt attention as she prepares the needle and tubes. There is only a slight pinch as she draws the blood, and he frowns.

This unexpected moment of burning, brilliant humanity in the midst of his tightly scripted screenplay has thrown him off - Molly Hooper an actress turned director, calling him out without really even meaning to - causing the aspects of his high that once helped him to focus to work against him.

It needs to stop.

But it doesn't matter, now, because the ambulance has been parked for three minutes, and Molly holds out his Belstaff, not able to look him in the eye. "It's bad, Sherlock-" she begins, but he cuts her off, not able to bear focusing on why the pain he has caused her has suddenly bounced back to rest on his shoulders, and how desperately he wants to take it away. One friend at a time, he thinks.

"Simple saline solution in the IV bag, if necessary then – right. Thank you for your assistance." He throws open the doors, sunlight causing the both of them to blink rapidly, and the sight of John walking up to them, glaring into the light as well, pushes his brain in the direction it needs to go.

"Well? How is he?" John asks expectantly, lips pressed into a tight line.

"Basically fine," Sherlock interjects.

"I've seen healthier bodies on my slab," Molly replies warily, a tightness springing up in her throat.

"Yes, but to be fair, you work with murder victims. They tend to be quite young."

His cavalier attitude make Molly grit her teeth. "Not funny."

"Little bit funny," he corrects.

"If you keep taking what you're taking at the rate you're taking it, you've got weeks, Sherlock. Weeks." And though she doesn't want it to, her voice cracks, just a bit.

"Exactly, weeks. Let's not get ahead of ourselves." His voice is casual, and though she knows it is his way of attempting to comfort her, it has the opposite effect.

"It's not a game, Sherlock!"

"Im worried about you, Molly, you look stressed." Sherlock's voice is pointed and arrogant in defense of her assessment, and it reawakens the raw ache in her chest that she'd managed to push away during her ride with him.

He has shifted, somehow – and he is a different person – a master of manipulation, once again - outside of the ambulance. The ambulance ride was both a gift and a cruel reminder of who she'll be losing if Sherlock is wrong about even the smallest detail of his plan.

Molly's lips pull back in a tight grimace. "I'm stressed, you're dying."

"Well, I'm ahead then. Stress can ruin your life every day. Dying can only ruin one." He flashes her a toothy smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Molly presses her lips together, attempting to restrain her emotions. The laugh they shared earlier over Billy's mistaken, overly-careful precautions turns her stomach, now.

But no – it was good for the both of them. His face – it was better, afterward. Less sad. Less empty. And so was she.

She would not regret a shared moment of happiness.

"-is it some sort of trick, then?" John says angrily, bringing her back to the present day, where a surprisingly large crowd of reporters are pressing in toward them, led by the accused serial killer himself.

Sherlock tilts his head and gives them both a smug look. "Of course it's not a trick – it's a plan."

And as John and Sherlock head off with the man who may be the death of them both (because what happens next for John, if Sherlock dies, now?) – Molly is left behind with the ambulance, blood samples to run and data to analyze to determine a course of action to best heal Sherlock's body, when this is all over.

Her eyes follow them, adrenaline rush winding down and leaving her exhausted and aching. She is about to turn back to the ambulance when Sherlock turns to look over his shoulder at her – and the look in his eyes burns through to her soul, and it both warms and chills her.

Be careful, she wills him with her eyes. Be careful.

And he is swallowed up by the gaping mouth of a monster of his own choosing.

A/N:

Based on my (very) limited research, some ambulances have a cab that is open to the back, and some are mostly closed with a door or window that allows access. For the sake of my story, I'm going with the closed door/window for privacy.

I have attempted to work through Molly's wardrobe change between ambulance scenes. I also realize that the dialogue from the show may not be exact, but I've no way to rewatch TLD at the moment and I'm avoiding the internet as a resource until I watch The Final Problem, tonight.

Thank you so, so much for your reviews, follows, and favorites! You make me smile!