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I should probably put a disclaimer somewhere here, but I am certain that you are all smart enough to tell that I own nothing except my imagination.

CHAPTER 3: WHAT'S THE CASE ABOUT? HER? OR HER? PROBABLY HER.

Friday, 3 p.m.

Lestrade had phoned Molly and called her out for lunch. They went to a small cafe near Barts, ordered two salads and cappuccino and just talked. He had gone through a divorce recently and was lonely, so Molly felt it was her duty to support him, like she did yesterday, by keeping him company. He is a very good friend and I truly enjoy his jokes, she thought, but he is still just a friend. I hope he understands.

After lunch Lestrade admitted that he had a little work related busyness as well. A new case of homicide, that was very much his division, had come up and he needed the autopsy results. Molly told him that she hadn't gotten time for it before and had intended to do it right after lunch. He told her he'd wait, so here he was now. Sitting in the lab. Nice of him to be here. Nobody really visits this place.

Molly was filling in the papers and the DI entertained her with a couple of anecdotes he had heard about Sherlock and John. When he had finished one that comprehended John, a stewardess and Sherlock's spectacular skill of disguises, they were both curled up in laughter.

On that very second the famous detective and his assistant entered the room, with an arrogant look on the taller man's face. That of course made them laugh even more, which made Sherlock frown in great displeasure.

"What are you guys laughing about, if I may ask?" said John. He came over, shook Lestrade's hand and greeted Molly with a hug.

"Oh nothing, nothing! Greg just told me some really good jokes," she answered his question, winking at the detective inspector, who gave her a bright smile in return.

Sherlock, obviously missing attention, rolled his eyes and sighed, taking off his Belstaff coat and the blue scarf.

"Problem?" Molly asked him, lifting her eyebrow, thanking god that the determination from yesterday hadn't left her.

He answered, voice soaking with sarcasm: "Of course not." He gave one of his fake smiles and placed his coat on the coat rack.

The little plastic bag in his hands told the pathologist clearly that he was here for work. As long as he's not bossing me around, he can do all that he wants to... Well not all.

She turned back to her papers, while John and Lestrade started talking something about a case somewhere in Dublin. She wasn't really listening and tuned out in her own thoughts, describing the wounds of the victim in the autopsy report.

Soon enough the resonating baritone bursted her bubble: "Coffee, Molly, if you please."

"Get it yourself," she replied, not lifting her eyes off the papers.

The moment Sherlock stepped into the lab and saw Molly laughing, he felt a warm fuzz in his stomach. I've never heard Molly laugh like this before. Then he noticed Lestrade with her and the warmness turned into a sharp stitch.

They had lunch together, he could see from the fresh coffee stain on Lestrade's sleeve. They were also together last night, judging by the collar of Molly's shirt. And then is their obvious flirtation. It made him want to vomit.

The stitch grew into an ache. What is this? He decided that he didn't like it, so he shut the feeling away to the cellar of his mind palace, where he kept the things he doesn't talk about. It's safer this way.

"Problem?"

"Of course not," Sherlock answered and occupied his microscope, to examine the dirt.

Soon he felt something was missing. Molly's constant gabbling. I can't work like that. "Coffee, Molly, if you please." He decided to win her back.

"Get it yourself," she calmly said, not even looking at the man and continued to work with her papers.

And then Sherlock felt lonely. He watched her chestnut brown hair reflect the light and give her a fascinating glow. She has always had such lovely hair. He shook himself out of it. Fortunately John and Lestrade were deep in their conversation and didn't see his moment of weakness.

But he still felt lonely, when he turned back to the microscope. John had a new girlfriend and this one looked serious, Mrs Hudson was on a holiday on Tenerife and Molly wasn't friendly to him anymore. He felt old even if he was only 30.

Why am I suddenly thinking about things like that? Sherlock shut off those thoughts and concentrated on his work. The same old microscope, which's buttons were familiar and reacted to his every touch, gave him the comfort he needed and soon he knew exactly what to do next. He smirked.

"John. Let's go," Sherlock said, when he had cleaned up. He pulled on his coat and scarf, hearing a little sigh from John, who said goodbye to Molly and Lestrade. The detective was about to rush out of the lab door when unexpected words slipped from his mouth: "Goodbye, Molly Hooper."

He managed to see a look of utter surprise on Molly's face, before he disappeared behind the door, followed by John.

When they exited the hospital, John grabbed his arm and pulled him to stop.

"Sherlock. What is going on? Where are we going?"

"The case, John. Do keep up." Sherlock hailed a cab.

"The kidnapped dog?" His voice carried a sound of disbelief.

"Obviously a lie. That woman is an actor. A criminal mastermind, who uses her countless disguises to steal, blackmail and trick other people for money. I managed to lock her up about 10 years ago, but she is out now and probably planning a revenge," Sherlock answered him, sitting in the cab that had stopped.

John stood outside for a moment, confusion on his face. Sherlock lifted his eyebrow.

"Are you coming or not?"

He sat in. "And where are we going, if I may ask?"

"Sussex Gardens."

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Love,

Ave