Author's note: Thanks again for the continuing support. Please R+R, and feel free to be as constructive as you like… I freely admit that there are possible, if not probable, errors in the pathology here. Not my area. ;)

Oh and potential trigger warning for brief self harm reference about half way down.

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. Unfortunately.

CHAPTER THREE

"Fantastic!"

"Sherlock!"

"Oh you know what I mean. Blah blah, solemn in the morgue, yes it is all very tragic…" At Molly's bland stare, Sherlock felt a prickle at the base of his neck; a feeling he was coming to learn meant 'not good', without the need for (as many) verbal prompts from John or Molly, and decided to change tack. "You, I meant – fantastic. After two full autopsies, the best that that dolt Lestrade continues to pretend is a pathologist could come up with is 'they're dead'. If we're lucky, that will have been the case before he started his Y incision. But here you are, offering me a murder already. Lets hear your reasoning."

Flustered, and more than a little suspicious at that much unsolicited praise, Molly narrowed her eyes slightly at him, before proceeding. "Well, erm… l- like I said, I was just reviewing the victim's bloods and I noticed that his insulin levels are sky high…"

"Urgh. Diabetic coma? Hypoglycaemia is boring, Molly –"

"Probably not for those involved, Sherlock. But with C-peptide levels as low as this, also impossible as a cause of death in this case. My guess – no not a guess," she hastily corrected at his scornful expression, "my hypothesis is insulin overdose. As the victim shows none of the clinical markers of diabetes, or of consistent insulin administration, that means deliberate and malicious administration of insulin. So, murder."

"Now that, not boring at all!" Pulling out his pocket magnifier with a click, he shot Molly a wink. "Bet I can find the hypodermic sites first." In her already vulnerable mood, Molly was easily stung into competition; professional and personal pride warring with decorum. The petite woman bent her head over the corpse on her table, rapidly dividing the body into sections to cover the most likely sites. Neck? No, clear of blemishes on both the left and right sides, although that mole on the lower border of the right sternocleidomastoid muscle was likely to display features of malignancy in the next six to twelve months. Upper arm? Clear on the left, but on the right, just in line with the faint shadow of ink still staining the torso, was that –

"Found it!" they both exclaimed simultaneously, gazing blankly at each other for a couple of beats, before Sherlock scrambled to switch places and examine the site Molly had found. Fixing him with a baleful look, almost daring him to disagree with her clinical findings, Molly found herself ignored; after a few minutes of intense scrutiny, Sherlock pushed away from the table to pace back and forward by the far wall of the morgue, tapping at the screen of his phone with an air of intense urgency. Huffing out her frustration, Molly turned to fill in Lestrade, who had just shuffled back into the lab, visibly more relaxed now his team were dispatched on more profitable lines of enquiry at last.

"So what we think is, he was given a deliberate overdose of insulin. Pretty old-school murder weapon. Probably… well, I'd say it reads as the shot in the arm came first: knock him, break the pen – yes I can listen and work at the same time, thank you Sherlock – and administer dose one. That's just enough to cause some dizziness, some disorientation. And when he sits down to recover – BAM! Dose two in the leg, taking him almost completely out."

"At which point, he takes everything that could lead towards an identity, and walks away. Leaving him to die."

"Yeah, Greg, that works, right? But somehow our John Doe here manages to fight off full unconsciousness for a short while, just long enough to get himself somewhere busier. So if you want to look for a crime scene for him to play with, I reckon you need to limit yourself to a slow moving five-minute walk from where he was picked up? No way he could have made it much further in that condition."

"Look, Molls, you've been amazing. I really appreciate anything extra you can give us, but there's no pressure. Especially…"

"Oh God, is it that obvious? I may as well get myself a sign!"

"No! I mean, erm… I maybe overheard some of the nurses from upstairs while I was out using my phone in the corridor. And I know what its like. I mean, not exactly that. But he's told the world all the problems that me and Sandra have had…" Rolling his own eyes at frustration, he gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Look, just say 'Shut up, Greg' and put us both out of our misery."

At the sympathetic squeeze on her arm, Molly cast a furtive glance over at Sherlock, still frenetically scrolling through some data or other on his phone. "No, its fine. I'd just really appreciate it if you didn't say anything to him. Not like he's not going to deduce it sooner or later, obviously, but a callous string of deductions might just have me reaching for the razor blades." Noticing Lestrade's horrified expression, Molly stumbled and tripped over her words, making faltering attempts to dig herself back out of this one. "No… I'm not… I wouldn't… I was just being melodramatic. Sorry, not very appropriate, especially given the setting…"

A low drawl from the corner, complete with a piercing pair of blue eyes latching on to her, made the words falter and fail in her throat. "I've told you before, Molly. Jokes? Better not."

"You were listening? I didn't –"

"No, too busy actually solving crimes, doing my job, that sort of thing. But even I can pick up on the horrifying aftermath of another misplaced episode of 'Gallows humour with Molly Hooper'. Why? What were you –"

"Alright then, Mr Perfect Work Ethic, what have you got?" Lestrade cut ruthlessly across his train of thought, eager to give Molly a fighting chance of making it through the day.

"Really, Lestrade, you'd think the head of a whole division of New Scotland Yard could display at least a passing interest in international persons of interest." Spinning his phone around, Lestrade sagged slightly to see a distressingly familiar web page: Interpol's most wanted. "May I present to you, your suspect. Anatole Huret, better known as the Boulevard Assassin."