I'm baaaack, been to Finland and got enganged in the meantime :D thank you all for your wonderful continued support, enjoy!

L is for limbs, legs, ligaments, laryngitis, loopholes

Molly was rarely ill, despite her unusual working habits and conditions. Unfortunately, this led to her being a terrible patient- not quite to Sherlock's standards, but still unpleasant to be around. On this occasion she had developed a mild case of laryngitis, bad enough that she couldn't talk, but not so bad she could justify time off. Thus she found herself in the lab with a pen and paper, struggling to communicate with her less than helpful colleagues. That was until Sherlock and John turned up wanting to see a particularly unusual corpse. It was the second one to be found in as many days: a less than average height male hanged with his own (well butchered) cruciate ligaments. Needless to say, Sherlock was as giddy as a school girl with excitement, bounding into the morgue as if it was all his Christmases and birthdays rolled into one.

"Bodies Molly!" He demanded, snapping on some nitrile gloves and rubbing his hands together with anticipation. She sighed loudly and went to write something on her paper.

"If you're not well enough to wheel a body you shouldn't be in, and you're obviously not just here to do paperwork as you told Mike, or you'd be in your office with an over sweet cup of tea and those ghastly biscuits you like. Chip chop, we haven't got all day," Sherlock drawled, shooing her towards the freezers. John and Molly swapped exasperated looks,

"Please," Sherlock said, as if answering an unasked question. Molly nodded shortly and made her way to the required bodies.

Two days later and her voice still hadn't recovered, Tom was nagging her to go to the doctors, conveniently forgetting that she was one herself, and Sherlock was getting increasingly difficult as the case dragged on. Bad things always come in threes as the old saying goes, and this evening was the third, and she hoped last 'event' in this particular triad of misery. She came home expecting to heat some food up and have an early night, Tom usually didn't hassle her if she'd had a long shift- he'd learnt that the hard way. Instead she found Sherlock stood next to the dining table, upon which was what looked like a kinky homeware shop stock list: twine, string, rope, washing line, a silk neckerchief, a tie, his scarf, and some chains. As she entered the flat she saw Tom unconscious on the sofa and a selection of knives, butchers and otherwise on the coffee table.

"Good evening, Molly." Sherlock acknowledged her presence with a creepy tone of voice and an even creepier grin on his face. Understandably however, this did not phase her. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done a weird case related experiment at her flat, and she was sure it wouldn't be the last, no matter how vehemently Tom protested. She had an inkling as to what was going on, but was sure she'd get a gruesome breakdown from the egotistical tit himself. She was correct. He spent the next hour explaining how this was an accidental serial killer that had developed a taste for murder, and found himself a partner who shared and (developed) the now trademark MO.

"So you see, what started as a series of erotic endeavors gone awry, has got a little out of hand. We're looking for a couple, one of whom has been suspected of manslaughter at least once before, and the other with a history of butchery with either doctor, nurse or pathologist experience. I have already texted Gavin my results, and where to look, so now I'm further investigating the cold cases that may be associated. Your… partner was in the way. He should be awake soon." Sherlock finished, looking very pleased with himself. Molly felt both relieved and horribly guilty that her fiancé was unconscious on the sofa, but at least it meant he couldn't complain, and she could be asleep before he woke if she hurried up about food. That may be the best way and she could then claim she thought he was asleep and left him to rest as he must be tired to crash on the sofa fully clothed with his shoes still on...

There was one problem with her plan, and it was currently tying an effective noose (with far too much practised ease) with the washing line it had stolen/borrowed from somewhere. There was little chance he'd leave his experiment soon, and even less that he wouldn't demand food afterward. She sighed, cooked an enormous portion of pasta for him, and ran into her room before he could rope her into helping.

She slept like a baby. Her first good night's sleep in over a fortnight. She ignored the overwhelming evidence that this was due to Tom's absence, and put it down to catching up from her infection. All was quiet in the rest of the flat, suspiciously so. She wrapped herself up in her fluffy dressing gown and steeled herself for whatever may lie on the other side of her bedroom door.

She frowned a little when she saw Tom in the same position as she left him last night, along with an empty pasta bowl and Sherlock's shoes. A strange scent caught her attention, and as she looked up she saw many clothes hangers adorning her ceiling, each with a different limb tied up with a different knot with a different material for hanging. The knives had been moved to the sink, and she gathered that the dining table was only empty as its previous contents was now attached to her ceiling. She couldn't help but feel proud that not only were the limbs not directly attached to the ceiling, but the knives made it to the sink! She immediately chastised herself, she should be concerned about her unfortunate fiancé, not congratulating the man child for being minimally considerate.

She rolled her eyes and opened the bathroom door to shower. She was greeted by Sherlock, in the bath, with what looked like some form of ligament or possibly tendon as a necklace. She sighed, turned on her heel and went to feed her cat instead.

"Couldn't you have waited another 10 minutes?" He shouted through the door she'd left open, not deigning to open his eyes. "I hypnotised Tim to wake up when you did that."

Sure enough, there was a loud groan from the lounge before Tom decided to pay a visit to the bathroom. Upon seeing Sherlock, his temper quickly flared,

"Molly said you'd promised not to drug me again!" Tom shouted, his anger flaring quickly.

"As if I'd break a promise to Molly, I hypnotised you." Sherlock snorted, hiding the satisfactory smirk at his convenient loophole. He was pretty sure Molly wouldn't mind, given it was a completely harmless technique, and she'd had a much better night's sleep because of it. Tom stamped out of the bathroom, all bodily needs forgotten as he started to read the riot act to Molly, how they were to be married and how their decisions should be made together. Molly however, had heard this speech four times in the last two weeks, and could most likely recite it herself. She decided to play her get out of jail free card,

"Tom, look up," She said tiredly. The strange request stopped Tom in his tracks, he tentatively tilted his head upwards, and promptly fainted, leaving Molly wondering if 10 am was too early for wine.