We're rapidly coming to the climax of the story! Stay tuned!

Thanks again for all the lovely support! I read all of your reviews and you guys make my day so much better! Thank you so much for encouraging me.

Sherlock's ringtone abruptly broke the silent serenity of the early morning. He sleepily rubbed at his face before reaching for the phone, his bleary eyes barely able to focus on the display.

It was Lestrade.

Sherlock was tempted to let it go to voicemail but decided against it. He thumbed the call button and put it up to his ear, shifting Molly gently so he could regain possession of his other arm, which was currently under the small woman's torso.

"Holmes." Sherlock's voice was hoarse with sleep. He smacked his mouth, which was dry, and rose from the bed, stalking into the kitchen for a glass of water, disregarding his nakedness.

"Sherlock, I've got something you're gonna want to see." Lestrade was tense, his words clipped and to the point. Sherlock's brow furrowed with anxiety.

What now?

"Text me the address."

"Will do." Greg hesitated then sighed. "You better bring Molly."

Sherlock unceremoniously dropped his glass on the counter, his heart sinking. Lestrade would only specifically ask for Molly if it so obviously involved her that even Scotland Yard couldn't miss it. The detective exhaled before replying.

"We'll be there."

He ended the call and stared down at the phone in his hand for a moment before walking back to the bedroom, dragging his feet along the way. He opened the door and Molly sleepily smiled up at him. He returned the gesture but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Molly, we've got to go. Lestrade called," he said, his voice monotone, as if he didn't trust it where emotion was concerned.

Her eyes opened fully and she sat up, biting her lip.

"Again?" her voice was low, and he knew exactly what Molly meant by that one simple word.

"It looks like it," he confirmed her suspicions.

Nearly an hour later, Sherlock and Molly ducked under the police tape that cordoned off the crime scene. The area was crawling with the Yard's finest and it took them a couple minutes to locate Lestrade in all the confusion.

"Sherlock, over here!" The Detective Inspector was waving at them from the entrance to Molly's favorite coffee shop.

"Maybe I can get a latte," she murmured under her breath, and Sherlock fought a smile.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," he replied out of the corner of his mouth as they made their way to Lestrade's position.

Greg looked them both over, his brow furrowed. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he scanned the Detective Inspector with critical eyes.

Hands shaking, sweaty palms, rubbing them against his trousers. Eyes darting from Molly, to me, to inside. Labored breathing, slight nervous twitch. Conclusion, our friendly tormentor has struck again and it is easily linked to the three of us.

Sherlock made his deductions in the blink of an eye, but that left him with too many possibilities. After all, the three of them had all been involved in many cases over the years. He needed more information before he could come to a solid conclusion.

"Show me," was all he said to Lestrade, who glanced inside one more time before nodding and motioning them both to come in.

"You're gonna want to suit up," Greg said to Molly, handing her a blue suit and some gloves, along with a net for her hair.

"Just the gloves, Molly," came Sherlock's distracted voice. He was busy peering over at the corner where Molly's favorite chair had been. Anderson was over there, along with several others. Instead of taking evidence though, they were all quietly facing Sherlock and Molly, their hands idle by their sides.

Molly grimaced and tilted her head apologetically at Lestrade, who shrugged, as if he'd expected as much, which was probably true.

Sherlock took a couple more steps into the shop and was hit with the nauseating smell of decaying flesh. He swallowed, and glanced back at Molly, whose nose had wrinkled, indicating she had caught the scent as well. Lestrade was looking a bit peaked behind her.

With a tilt of his head, Sherlock beckoned his pathologist over and together they advanced on the crime scene. When the crowd of Yarders parted to reveal the source of the stench, both Molly and Sherlock gasped and looked at each other.

"Our first case," Molly breathed quietly, and Sherlock nodded briefly, his wide eyes taking in the scene before them.

Sherlock's first case for the Yard had been somewhat of a disappointment. Not because it was beneath him or boring. No, it was disappointing because it was, to date, the only case he had failed to solve. Of course, there were a few that eluded him for a while, months even, but he'd eventually figured them all out. Except the very first one.

Eight years ago, on a cold December night, and Lestrade had stumbled upon a very high, twenty-nine year old Sherlock in a back alley. Greg was thirty-four and still relatively new to his position as Detective Inspector.

Lestrade had arrested him appropriately, but on the way to book him, he'd received a dispatch to a crime scene. Greg had sighed, but followed orders and driven to the scene.

He hadn't counted on Sherlock expertly picking his way out of his cuffs and appearing by his side, examining the two bodies before him with some measure of glee. Streams of deductions poured from the scrawny man and Lestrade had been fascinated by the insight the he'd had into the scene.

Sensing that Sherlock was more than meets the eye, Lestrade made him a deal. He'd let him help on the case, unofficially of course, if Sherlock stayed off of drugs during the course of the investigation. Holmes' eyes had narrowed, knowing the risk that Lestrade was taking on a nameless junkie, but had acquiesced.

Lestrade let Sherlock gather all he could from the scene, then had the bodies taken to Bart's for further examination. Sherlock had dramatically barged into the morgue, only to stop dead at the sight of a tiny woman, no more than twenty-six or seven, scrubbing her arms.

"Where's the pathologist on duty?" Lestrade had asked, exasperated. Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet, his high coming down quickly.

"She'll do just fine. Still a student, in her first, no, second year of residency, she graduated undergrad a year early, but more than capable. The pathologist on duty right now has taken ill and is in the bathroom. Judging from the state of the room, he's not fit to be in charge here anyway. Doctor Hooper will be miles above him in her analysis."

Both Molly and Lestrade had stopped in the tracks, staring at the drugged man. He sighed, annoyed at them both.

"Go find the idiot if you must, but I doubt he's in a state to do more than observe as Doctor Hooper does the autopsy." He bounced over to the bodies and went to pull back the sheet, but stopped as Molly cleared her throat nervously.

"Umm, you can't, well, you can't just touch them," she'd stuttered, her eyes anywhere but on him.

Nervous, not about her abilities, hmm, oh! Me then. Nervous in my presence. Attraction. Human error.

He'd dismissed her almost automatically, concluding that she was unimportant.

Eventually, a haggard Lestrade had come back into the morgue, and gave orders for Molly to go ahead and do the autopsies in a tired voice.

When she'd protested, he'd cut her off with a simple, yet confusing, "The British Government has cleared him and we need to get this done tonight."

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed, but he was quickly distracted by the petite woman prepping for the examinations. She was methodical and exacting in her movements, all trace of her former nervousness disappearing in the task at hand. He found himself fascinated by it, realizing that must be what he looked like when presented with a puzzle. He'd gazed at the little pathologist-in-training in a new light. Respect. Sherlock had decided right then that if he was allowed to continue consulting, she'd be the only pathologist he'd ever work with.

Now, as Sherlock surveyed the bodies in front of him, his mind whirled. They were exactly the same as those first ones, as well as the four that had followed. The ones that led him to meeting Lestrade, then Molly and eventually to his new life consulting for the Yard.

There was no such thing as a coincidence, but presented with the scene in front of him, Sherlock wished that they did exist.