3-

It was bound to happen eventually and John was more than pleased when it did. Sherlock had been rather unbearable these past few days, and that was even without John's incessant teasing. Of course the teasing had been railroaded when Sherlock had threatened to 'experiment' with his dinner again.

One LSD trip disguised as a ham sandwich was enough, thank you very much.

But now they had a case; a case which might necessitate them going to the morgue where a certain Molly Hooper would be gaining great pleasure dissecting bodies for money.

John grimaced. Putting it that way, even in his head, it sounded like a snuff film. He shuddered and tried not to think about how living with Sherlock Holmes had corrupted him.

He looked down at the corpse at his feet; Sherlock was doing his usual dance, looking for minute particles that would tell him the life story of the dead man. He'd dart from one end of the corpse to the other, his tiny magnifying glass in hand and his Belstaff swirling around him in a black whirlwind making him look like a demented Batman.

But then that made John Robin and he wasn't wearing red tights for anyone.

Sherlock made one of his 'aha' noises and John gave in. "Anything Interesting?"

"Oh yes." Sherlock slid his magnifying glass away. "Pretty intriguing. What are your thoughts?"

John knelt down and poked it. "It's a dead body."

"Your deductive processes never fail to amaze. Anything else Doctor Watson?"

John sighed. He was a little fed up of Sherlock insisting on him reeling off his thoughts, only to be told that they were totally wrong. "Male, late forties, been dead at least a week." He frowned. "Why did no one find him? This area is pretty well travelled. If he'd been dead a week then surely someone would have reported him."

Sherlock nodded. "Because he's only been there eighteen hours."

"Oh," John looked around. "So he's been moved here then?"

"No." Sherlock bounced on his heels with all the delight of a little boy. "He was killed here."

"No." John shook his head firmly. "Sherlock, this level of putrefaction means he's been dead at least a week. If he was killed here it wasn't eighteen hours ago, it was last week."

"I know!" Sherlock beamed and dived in his pocket for his mobile. He started to walk away from the crime scene, ignoring the detectives and sergeants who glared at him. John hurried to keep up.

"I presume there will something in his blood work which will tell us how he reached this advanced state of decay in such a short period of time." Sherlock's fingers flew over the keys of his mobile. "I've texted Lestrade who has had a sample sent to the lab. He'll let us analyse it."

He hailed a taxi and the two of them climbed in. "St. Barts."

The taxi took off and Sherlock returned to his phone, flicking through items faster than John could see them.

"It's all so fascinating, John, advanced putrefaction like that would require some sort of accelerant but there was no trace of it on the ground. There hasn't been any rain and, as you stated, anyone could have happened upon him in the last eighteen hours. This could take hours."

He grinned.

John frowned. Why was Sherlock so happy that this could take some time? Usually he wanted to solve the murder or the case quickly. He wanted to show off his-

Oooh.

John smirked. "Oh, I see."

Sherlock was so busy texting that he barely spared him a glance. "See what?"

"You're excited about going to see the missus. It's sweet that you want to spend hours showing off for her."

Sherlock's fingers froze and his voice was even icier as he replied. "You're not still on that."

John shrugged at the implied threat in his tone. "I've gone off ham anyway. Besides I found your secret supply of experimental narcotics."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dismissively. "It was hardly secret then, if you managed to find it."

John wondered, not for the first time, how Sherlock had managed to make it intact to adulthood. Surely someone should have killed him by now. He thought longingly of the time Sherlock had asked him to punch him in the face.

Good times.

He dreamed about that punch, the satisfying crack of those perfect cheekbones under his knuckles and the satisfaction of shutting that mouth. He sighed happily.

Sherlock looked over at him as they got out of the taxi and headed towards the morgue.

"Are you thinking of dating again, John? May I remind you that your last attempt was the dreadfully dull barrister?"

John blinked, confused. "What brought that on?"

"You had the revolting smile on your face. We're in the middle of a murder which tends to leave you somewhat depressed and there are no nurses in sight, hence you are thinking of something that brings you great pleasure." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Process of elimination, you are thinking of dating."

"Oh good," John grinned widely, relishing his next few words, "but totally wrong."

Sherlock paused mid-step. "Wrong?"

John just nodded happily. He loved it when he got one over on Sherlock. It didn't happen often but when it did it was a sight to savour. "Yep, totally wrong this time. I wasn't thinking about a woman at all."

Sherlock frowned. "Really? Then what were you thinking about that made you smile?"

"Nothing much," John shrugged as they rounded the corner to the morgue. "Wait."

Sherlock stopped, peering down at his friend. "What now?"

"Didn't you want to do your hair, maybe flip up the collar, make yourself look presentable for Molly?"

John couldn't help the chuckle as Sherlock gritted his teeth, the sharp angle of his cheekbones emphasizing his annoyance. He gave his best friend one last glare and stormed off down the corridor, his Belstaff flapping behind him.

"That's right, she likes the sweep of the coat," John called.

Sherlock feigned deafness.

This was seriously the most fun he'd had in ages. Who would have thought that Sherlock Holmes was so very easy to tease?

John followed him into the morgue, feeling the sudden chill at the drop in temperature. How Molly didn't spend most of her time with a cold was a marvel. The woman herself was currently flicking over some paperwork, her brow furrowed.

"Hello Molly," John gave her a smile which was returned with interest as the sweet pathologist turned around.

"Hello John, Sherlock." Her smile got almost impossibly brighter. "How are things?"

"Excellent," Sherlock said quickly, apparently not waiting for John to start up banal pleasantries. "Do you have the samples that Lestrade sent over?"

"No," she replied with a frown.

Sherlock's expression darkened and John braced himself for an explosive diatribe on the utter uselessness of New Scotland Yard and the ineptitude of their police force.

Thankfully he was halted as the door opened behind them. A messenger boy stormed in and handed Molly an envelope before storming out again.

Molly ripped it open, read the enclosed note and pulled out the vials. "Yes, apparently I do."

She held the vials of blood up to the light. "Old blood, discolouration and coagulation. It'll take me a few minutes to set up the testing."

"No problem," Sherlock shot John a look before he headed over to a stool. "How are my cultures faring?"

"Fine," Molly said absently as she fiddled with a centrifuge. "Except the one that exploded."

"Really?" Sherlock perked up. "I wish I'd been here for that."

"So does the cleaner."

Molly was turned away but John caught the slight smile on Sherlock's face at her wit.

Aw, that was so sweet; Molly and Sherlock bonding over corpse humour. They really were all kinds of perfect for each other.

All they needed was a little push.

The consulting detective was not fooling him one little bit. John may not be most intuitive person in the world, he may not be able to deduce that a man was cheating on his taxes by the colour of his socks but he knew when his best friend was intrigued. He'd seen it in cases, in articles and now he was seeing it with Molly Hooper. Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes off her, sneaking peeks at her through his lashes like a shy teenager. He found any excuse to go to Barts and he showed marked dislike of anyone else talking to her. He was intrigued, infatuated and in serious denial.

And Molly had come to the conclusion that he was simply not interested in her and so mistook all of the obvious signs.

So it was up to John to help these two to get their act together. John Watson matchmaker extraordinaire.

Molly reached for a microscope and hummed a little to herself.

Perfect.

"Nice tune, Molls," John said, "What was that?"

Molly blushed slightly. "Que sera, sera, I've had it stuck in my head all day. My dad used to sing it to me."

"Doris Day from The Man Who Knew Too Much." Sherlock said abruptly.

John blinked. "Trust you to know that one." The title was surprisingly apt for Sherlock Holmes. Of course it would have been better as The Man Who Knew Too Much And Didn't Know When To Keep His Bloody Mouth Shut but that probably wouldn't have done as well in cinemas.

"Mycroft was a fan of James Stewart and I enjoy Hitchcock."

And that really was their childhood in a nutshell, thought John, talk about a therapists dream.

"I was more into comedies myself, Fawlty Towers, Red Dwarf, Steptoe and Son. What about you Molly?"

"Didn't really watch much T.V." She admitted, "I always preferred to read. But I loved it when he got the day off and dad would take me to a show."

"Ballet? Plays?"

Molly nodded, a fond smile on her face. "We'd do Shakespeare and the Roman ballet and occasionally a musical."

"Never could stand musicals," John admitted, "people bursting into song at random moments sort of freaked me out. In fact I was never really one for the theatre. Or Shakespeare. Not like Sherlock. I bet he's been to every opera there ever was."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Perhaps. It is a mark of culture, John."

"Is there an opera on at the minute?" John said nodding towards Molly encouragingly.

"Probably." Sherlock just glowered at him, ignoring his prodding.

"Do you like opera, Molly?"

Molly shrugged. "Never been to see one."

"That's a shame isn't it, Sherlock?" John licked his lower lip. Sherlock said nothing and John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Really what was the man playing at, John was giving him plenty of opportunities to ask her out and he was dropping every single one. It wasn't like he didn't want to.

He stepped closer to Sherlock and poked him, inclining his head towards Molly.

"Ask her," he mouthed. But the consulting detective narrowed his eyes and focussed on his microscope. Stubborn to the last.

Fine. If that was the way that Sherlock was going to be then John was prepared to play dirty.

John grinned. " You know, I heard Greg was into theatre too."

Sherlock stiffened.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Molly sounded surprised. "I never would have pegged him for that."

"Not cultured enough?" John teased.

Molly giggled as she coloured. "Don't tell him I said that. I just pictured him more down the pub with a pint and some mates. Not sitting in the theatre watching a play."

"Even better," John leaned in conspiratorially, "he likes musicals."

"No!" Molly sounded scandalised.

"Molly, those samples aren't going to test themselves."

Molly almost jumped at the irate tone in Sherlock's voice. "Right, sorry."

She turned back to the samples and gathered some more testing equipment. In no time at all she had set up the apparatus and was peering into the microscope, making notations in her curly handwriting.

Sherlock was doing his level best not to look at her and was failing miserably. John leaned against the table and watched as Sherlock surreptitiously studied her from the corner of his eye.

He really failed at subtlety.

Give the man a murder and he was right at home, but stick him in front of a pretty, smart woman and watch him flounder.

"I think there is some sort of chemical in the blood," Molly said suddenly. "I'm not a toxicologist and most of whatever it is has been assimilated into the blood stream but the white cells are off and I'm getting some strange readings here." She bit her lip distractedly. "Once the body gets here I can examine the hair follicles to test for extended drug use and the stomach contents. But the preliminary findings are that a foreign substance was introduced to the victim."

Sherlock's usually blank expression had altered as he listened to her technical explanation and the glimmer of both approval and affection was evident.

Sherlock liked his women knowledgeable.

"Right, well someone should bring the corpse along shortly. If you could let us know the findings," Sherlock slipped off his stool. "We'll return shortly."

Molly nodded, too involved in her experiments to notice his slight pause. She was just like him in that respect, give her something interesting to look at and the rest of the world might as well not exist.

Her dismissal didn't sit well with Sherlock. He let his gaze drift over her and then opened his mouth.

John knew that he was about to make one of his scathing deductions in a desperate bid for her attention and that would never do.

Earning himself a dozen brownie points John cleared his throat and spoke quickly. "That is unless you're busy. Have you got something planned for tonight, Molly?"

Molly looked up at him with a somewhat sad smile. "Not really. I was hoping to finish early but it's okay. I don't mind staying."

"We do appreciate you staying to help us, don't we, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, staring down at the pathologist inscrutably. John fought the urge to roll his eyes. Right, well if this didn't push him into doing something then nothing would.

Three continents Watson pulled out his most charming smile.

"Honestly, I think that without you, Sherlock wouldn't be able to solve his cases nearly as quick."

Molly beamed at him even as Sherlock bristled. "That's a nice thing to say. I mean I don't do much but any help I can give." She giggled a little as her words mixed up. "I mean I'm happy to help."

"Oh, I don't know," John leaned against the desk, giving her a wink. "Sherlock refuses to work with anyone that isn't good top of their field, and even then he complains. The amount of time he insults Lestrade, you should hear him!"

"I have," Molly said, looking up at Sherlock through her lashes. "Quite often."

"But not you," John leaned over and poked her teasingly. "You, Doctor Molly Hooper, are exempt from the Sherlock rant. How do you do it?"

Molly shrugged one shoulder, a blush making its way across her face. She looked down at her paperwork, obviously unused to the attention.

John flicked his gaze up to meet Hurricane Holmes. If looks could kill John would be a scorch mark on the floor. He fought the urge to back-peddle and leaned further over the table.

"You have some serious skills, Molly."

She bit her lower lip and flushed prettily and John felt twin feelings of shame and pride. He didn't like to manipulate people as such but it was a good feeling to know that he could pull Molly Hooper if he tried.

Take that Sherlock Holmes.

He cocked his head slightly and lowered his voice. "You know, Molly. Phantom of the Opera is being shown at the Mayfair."

"Oh?" Molly looked up at the sandy haired soldier, her doe eyes bright.

"It just so happens that-"

"I have an extra ticket."

The two of them looked up at Sherlock who was clenching his jaw. His hands were tight on the edge of the table, showing white knuckles.

"Pardon?" Molly blinked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I happen to have two tickets to the production," he glared at his friend, "perhaps you would care to accompany me?"

Molly stared at him. "What?"

"Would you like to go to the theatre?"

"With you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

Inner John did a dance of triumph. Outward John stood back, enjoying the show.

Molly turned to John. "I don't want to take your place if you were really looking forward to going. I have heard it's a brilliant production."

"First I've heard of it." John put his hands in his pockets, grinning widely.

"Oh." Molly looked confused. "Well, if I'm not taking up anybody's seat then I'd love to see it. I can pay you for the ticket."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look confused. "I didn't think that was standard procedure on dates although, admittedly, it has been a while since I have embarked on one. However, I am somewhat old fashioned, and do insist on paying for the evening."

"Date?" Molly's voice was faint. "You're asking me out on a date?"

Sherlock huffed. "I assumed that was implied."

"Not when it comes to you, besides you said 'Assumptions are the by-product of a lazy mind'." Molly reminded him, still looking like she couldn't believe her luck.

"So I did." He gave her an approving nod. "However not on this occasion. Would you care to accompany me to the theatre on a date, Doctor Hooper?"

"Yes?" She cleared her throat. "I mean yes. Thank you. I would. Most definitely. Yes."

Sherlock smiled. A genuine, smile without malice or insincerity. "Excellent. Perhaps when I return for the samples we can discuss it further."

"O-okay," Molly said in a haze.

"Then I shall see you later," his voice dropped an octave.

"Uh huh."

Sherlock and John left the morgue and the dazed pathologist and made their way through the hospital.

"See you later." John mocked, his tone as low as he could make it.

"Shut up."

"That has to be the poshest way I've ever heard someone ask anyone out. Ever. "Care to accompany me to the theatre?" What are we in, Downton Abbey?"

"Should I have said "fancy a pint, love"?"

John grimaced, Sherlock's cockney accent was grating.

"No, don't do that. Although I would have loved to see Molly's face if you called her that. Anyway I'm glad you finally succumbed to the inevitable."

"Molly and I were hardly inevitable."

"I was thinking about dating in general, but it's interesting your mind went there."

The slightest red tinge showed under his collar.

"Do you need dating advice?"

"Hardly," Sherlock sniffed disparagingly. "If the endless parade of women streaming from your bedroom prove one thing, John, it's that, while you are undoubtedly good at attracting a woman- something that baffles me at times- you do not seem to be very proficient at keeping them."

John would have been insulted. Was insulted, in fact. But for one little thing.

"So you want someone who's good at relationships then? Are we perhaps planning on something long-term with Molly?"

The red tinge crawled up the side of his face.

"Molly Holmes indeed."

"Hooper."

"For now." They continued through St Barts and into the taxi before John spoke again. "You know I expect to be best man."

"You are not the slightest bit amusing."

"I'll give a great speech." John ignored Sherlock, mapping out their wedding in his head.

"You're being tedious, John."

"Although you're on your own for the honeymoon."

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope." John popped his P and then affected a solemn expression. "One thing though, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Hamish, it's a good boy's name. That's all I'm saying."

"Do shut up, John."

I'm going to apologise. I must have written and rewritten this last chapter ten times and it still doesn't feel right. But I wanted to move onto other things. Sorry if it sucks but sometimes the muse goes on vacation and takes your brain with it.