"The stitches on Mr. Williams had a faint smell to them," Molly casually brought up. Sherlock was at her flat, using it as a bolt hole.

"Mm, how so?" he asked. "What did it remind you of? Remember every detail possible."

"It was a familiar scent; a type of cologne, though I've no idea what it is," she told him. "Don't you have several types of perfumes and colognes catalogued in that mind palace of yours?"

"Yes but the scent has most likely faded by now, but if it's familiar, maybe someone you know has worn it," Sherlock answered. "I do worry that—" He stopped short as his phone went off. Molly listened to his side of the call, deducing for herself that it was Greg and another victim had been found in stitches.

"Another one?" she asked.

"Yep," he replied. "Want to come?"

"Sure," she smiled.

"This one was obviously done in a hurry; the stitch-work is sloppy," Sherlock observed. "Scuff marks from a—" he brought out his magnifier—" lugged sole, so most likely a work boot of some kind."

"Blonde hair," Molly piped up. "It's long; probably a woman."

"It doesn't make any sense," Sherlock muttered. "Men's cologne, woman's hair."

"Maybe they're working together," she suggested. "I still smell the cologne on this one too."

"I think I know it too," Greg added. "I think someone at Bart's wears it."

"Who?" Sherlock asked urgently.

"Mr. Norris, I believe," he answered. "The ex and I used to have dinners together with him and his girlfriend. She worked there too, a nurse. Her name was—"

"Theresa," Molly finished. "She has long blonde hair; my God, you're right, Greg! Mr. Norris is a surgeon too. I have to go into work tonight and we've only got Theresa's hair as proof."

"Molly, it will be okay; I'll make sure to find more definitive proof of him," Sherlock assured her. "Just go on as if everything is normal, okay? Don't let either of them become suspicious that you know something."

"Okay," Molly agreed.

She was unnerved on the inside but was completely composed on the outside. The latest victim's body was on the slab and she was furthering the examination, looking for any proof of Mr. Norris. She didn't notice the pair of eyes peering into mortuary's door window. She tested the bit of blood found on the victim's wrist and compared it to the blood inside the body. It didn't match up.

"Miss Hooper, sorry to bother you, but I'm afraid I must stop this autopsy," Mr. Norris's eyes bore into hers.

"I'm nearly finished; I'm not stopping now," she replied, keeping her composure. He circled around her.

"Then I'm afraid you will have to share the same fate; you know too much," he warned before clamping a hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming.

"She's not answering her phone," Sherlock panicked, pacing the sitting room.

"Sherlock, she's at work; she's probably just up to her elbows in a cadaver," John chuckled.

"No, she always answers, no matter what," he replied. "I'm going over there." Sherlock took out his phone as he flew down the stairs. "Lestrade, meet me at Bart's. I have reason to believe that Molly's life has been endangered."

Molly bit his hand hard, drawing blood before she grabbed her scalpel and stuck it in his side.

"Why you little bitch!" he exclaimed, slapping her. Molly recovered quickly and shoved the cart of medical supplies into him before running out of the morgue and towards the lab. She could hide in the supply closet and text Sherlock. As her feet crossed over the lab's threshold, Mr. Norris yanked her ponytail back and her head hit the door jamb hard. She felt the trickle of blood and became woozy, eventually blacking out as she heard Sherlock's voice in her head.

She woke with a start, eyes fluttering rapidly, adjusting to the hospital lighting.

"Sherlock," her voice was rough.

"Molly," Sherlock breathed out in relief. "I thought you were dead when I found you. You had lost so much blood and your heart rate had dropped so low, I could barely feel it." A couple of tears fell from his eyes, now a stormy blue.

"Norris, what about him?" she asked.

"Arrested along with his girlfriend," he told her. "There's stitches on the back of your head; I saw you put up a good fight."

"Stabbed with a scalpel and ran," she spoke hoarsely.

"That's my girl," Sherlock smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. When she focused on his face, it looked like he had been through hell. Dark circles were beneath his beautiful eyes and his curls were the most unruly she had ever seen as if he had ran his fingers through them several times. "I should've been there with you."

"It's not your fault," Molly told him, her voice finding strength. "Sherlock, I'm okay. It wasn't your fault." She repeated it like a mantra.

"I could've lost you," his voice broke. He took her hand in his.

"But you didn't," she insisted.

"Quite right," Sherlock kissed the back of her hand. "I should be comforting you, not the other way around."

"I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm more worried for you right now," Molly caressed his cheek.

He stayed the night at the hospital, never leaving her side. His fingers brushed over her hand lightly every now and then. He provided water for her whenever she needed it and hummed violin concertos in her ear, eventually lulling her to sleep.