The body on the autopsy table is a 56-year-old woman who was found dead at home – lived alone, no break-in, no note. Baffled, the police have asked Molly to determine cause of death. As Molly examines the stomach contents, a deep voice echoes through the morgue.
"Who are you?"
The pathologist jumps. "Sir, this area's not open to the public," she stammers at a tall man with unruly dark curls.
"It's all right, he's with me," a second voice resounds, and a man with salt-and-pepper hair walks in brandishing a badge. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," he says, shaking Molly's hand. "You must be new, Doctor…"
"Molly Hooper," she says. Her next words come in a flood. Both men are scrutinizing her, and Molly is desperate to make a good impression. "It's my first day. She didn't convulse, so we can rule out strychnine. Going by the dilation of the pupils, I'd say belladonna, but I'll need a tox screen to be certain."
The dark-haired man's eyes burn into her. "When will the results be available?"
"Um… two hours, Mister…?"
"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," he says, and flounces out. The DI apologizes before chasing after him. Molly's greatest fear is that she's just screwed up.