Sherlock knelt on the cold ground, examining the even colder body of a young woman with his magnifying glass.

She was pretty, objectively speaking, and a mass of contradictions.

Lestrade, John, even Sherlock had assumed from first glance that she was one of the many homeless in the city. When he got to the scene though, Sherlock had done a double take. She was dressed in typical attire for a homeless person and she was messy but her nails were manicured and her skin was soft, the type of soft that came from expensive skin treatments. Her hair had been colored, and recently, as there were hardly any of the roots showing. There were faint traces of makeup too.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Not homeless. Pretending to be. Why? What was she hiding from?

He glanced down at her face again, his brow furrowed. She was familiar but he couldn't think why.

John ambled over and looked down at her too.

"Cause of death?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor knelt on the other side of the woman and checked her out. The body was in near pristine condition as far as a visual examination went, with the exception of some stiffness in the neck.

"Hard to say without a more thorough examination." He peered at the woman's face for a minute. "Huh, that's funny."

Sherlock glanced up at John before returning his attention to the body. "I seem to recall you saying that crime scenes aren't funny."

John gave him an exasperated glare. "Not 'haha' funny, Sherlock. Funny as in odd."

"Well spit it out then."

Huffing out a sigh at his former roommate's rudeness, John answered, "She just looks like a woman from the papers, that's all."

"Ah!" Sherlock's face lit up and he rubbed his hands together. "For once, your inane society knowledge is useful." He stood and readjusted his scarf and coat, ignoring John's exaggerated eye roll.

"Okay, I'll try to take that as a compliment. Explanation, Sherlock?"

"But it's so obvious," Sherlock whined.

John beckoned Lestrade over then crossed his arms. "Humor me."

Sherlock shook his head at them. "Got some theories, need more data, assumptions are sloppy." He turned to Lestrade "Do you have a name?"

Greg shook his head, his lips pursed. "She had nothing on her. No id, no phone, nothing. We're checking the database now."

Sherlock spun on his heel, striding off, and called back to the DI, "Get the body to Bart's so Molly can examine it."

"Oi, where you off to?" Greg yelled back.

"Research!" was the response before he turned a corner and disappeared from their view.

Sherlock's fingers were busy folding up a 20 pound note as he strolled up to a rather filthy young girl. She sat on a bench, watching people pass by and held out a cup to those who deigned to stop and drop some change into it. He dropped down onto the bench next to her and she turned to him, giving him a wide smile that showcased her dirty teeth. The detective handed her the bill along with a picture of the dead woman. She grasped it, staining the corner with dirt, and examined it closely.

"What can you tell me about that one?" Sherlock leaned back against the backrest and watched the cars go by on the street.

The girl scratched her head a moment. "Not much, boss. Been seein''er 'round 'ere a bit. Not long tho'. Just showed up one day." She lowered her voice confidentially. "Been talk she ain't right tho'. She don't belong 'ere."

Sherlock rubbed his hands on his pants, cringing at the blatant abuse of the English language. "Obviously. Anything else?"

The urchin shook her head. "Naw, ain't nobody seen 'er in days, boss."

He stood. "Keep an ear out. You know where to find me." With a curt nod, he hailed a cab and climbed inside, giving orders to head to Bart's.

Molly had just finished scrubbing in when the doors slammed open and Sherlock strode in, looking like he owned the place, as usual. The petite pathologist gave him a sunny smile and for a moment, he forgot why he was there. He snapped out of it quickly though and cleared his throat.

"Ready to do the autopsy on our Jane Doe?"

"Of course. But, Sherlock," she paused and he huffed impatiently.

"Yes, Molly?"

Her whole demeanor changed and the timid little girl was replaced by a confident woman. "Do try to remember that I'm the professional here."

He looked offended and she held up a finger to silence him, surprisingly, it worked.

"No interruptions, no talking while I'm recording, don't pester me for explanations before I've finished and DON'T try to tell me you know what killed her before I figure it out."

Sherlock gulped and nodded. "Understood." Where did this side of her come from?

Molly turned and clicked the recorder on. "External visual exam, no signs of trauma, skin color normal, hmmm, swelling in the upper right triceps, consistent with vaccines…" she continued speaking, and Sherlock found himself zoning out, just watching her mouth move, her lips definitely were not too small.

"… Cullen's sign…"

He sat on an empty table and observed her, her tiny hands moving, wielding the scalpel with precision, her brow crinkled in concentration, the occasional chewing of her lip.

"…Apparent Waterhouse–Friderichsen syndrome causing organ failure and massive internal bleeding around almost all of the abdominal organs…"

Maybe I could kiss her again. She won't want to call me her boyfriend if we begin a relationship, will she? His lip curled in disgust. Such a childish way to refer to your significant other.

"…Severe inflammation of the meninges…"

What could I call her? I doubt calling her my pathologist will fly.

"…Copious pus formed around the spinal cord and at the base of the brain…"

Sherlock jumped awake at the feel of someone shaking his arm.

"Sherlock, wake up. I'm finished."

He opened his eyes to see Molly staring down at him, suppressing an expression of amusement.

I could wipe that smug look off her face so fast… No focus.

He sat up quickly, adjusting his clothes and rubbed his face. "Right, results?"

Molly handed him a folder. "Well, cause of death is untreated Bacterial Meningitis."

"Isn't that abnormal for someone in good health?"

"It certainly is." John appeared in Sherlock's field of vision from the direction of the door, balancing three cups of coffee. He handed one each to Molly and Sherlock and sipped from his own.

Molly accepted her cup and grinned at John, making Sherlock scowl and take too hasty a sip, scalding his mouth slightly. He winced as Molly continued.

"I found very high concentrations of Streptococcus pneumonia, the bacteria that caused it, in her blood. The protein levels were through the roof and the glucose was extremely low. Now, meningitis is caused by exchange of bodily fluids, and is spread through the blood stream."

"So she kissed someone who had it? But if her immune system was fine then she shouldn't have caught it, right?"

"Right. But I don't think that's how she got it."

"Oh, how then?" Sherlock had to admit to himself that hearing her speak about a subject she was so knowledgeable on was pretty sexy. Focus, focus.

"She has an injection site on her arm that is very swollen still. Meaning it had to have been more so when she was still alive. It's a long shot but I think," Molly paused and took in a deep breath, obviously afraid Sherlock was going to shoot down her theory. "I think that someone injected her with a combination of live and virile bacteria to cause her to become ill."

As Sherlock thought about that, John jumped in. "But who would want to do that to a random homeless girl?"

"Oh, she wasn't homeless." Molly replied quickly. "She's far too well kept to be homeless."

John looked at her in confusion. "What do you mean? She was a mess."

Sherlock stood. "Once again, you see but do not observe, John. Her nails were manicured, her hair colored, her skin smelled of lotion."

John's mouth fell open. "So she was pretending? Why?"

"That's just what I intend to find out." He flipped the collar up on the Belstaff (taking no small amount of pleasure in hearing Molly's breath quicken) and stalked out of the morgue with John scurrying behind.