I could quite easily break a window and have done with it.

When Molly isn't home, I have often been inconvenienced enough to gain entrance via my set of lockpicks and a lubricated credit card (often Mycroft's, or John's, as the whimsy takes me) and, although such options have been stripped from this occasion (and my coat pockets- how enchantingly thorough they have been), if required, I could quite easily take my leave of this place. Nakedness (or near nakedness) has rarely been an issue for me, and Londoners being so remiss in the taking in their washing of an evening, an arrest for indecent exposure would be less than likely.

However…

I loosen my bedsheet (hilarious on occasion; less so after two hours of chafing) and kneel a little closer to the mattress. Our abductors have failed to relieve Molly Hooper of her cosmetic magnifying lens (cuticles? I am at a loss…) thus, I have a rudimentary device with which to view the evidence as it presents itself. Physical discomfort, I find, dissipates pleasantly when the mind is occupied. The vagaries and inconvenience of the transport may be forgotten when there are details to be scrutinized and audited. First hand evidence at at the scene is always invaluable, and I now have the good fortune to be the first on hand to gather all the information I can from this crime scene; the crime itself not yet entirely specified, bar the distinct inconveniencing of Mr Sherlock Holmes (in my eyes, a very manifest and real offence).

I am so very close; close enough to inhale, almost taste the stain upon the sheet (so slight, yet its greasy patina cannot be ignored) and then scrape a minute sample upon a plastic lid (Tupperware- what is that?), although I could not dare to hope the cuticle lens could be of any-

"Sherlock, you are going to love me forever!"

I am startled enough to drop both the lens and Tupperware, and experience a severe lurch within my chest, causing an unpleasant wash of heat across my entire body which I can only attribute to alcohol withdrawal. Molly Hooper. I had quite forgotten she was here, and annoyance at being startled straddles everything else, robbing me of my good humour. I turn, brows drawn and a cutting phrase burgeoning unbidden from my lips…

Yet-

There, in the manner of the muse of Frédéric Bartholdi and Gustave Eiffel, stands Molly Hooper, brandishing (in lieu of a flaming torch) a… microscope.

"They missed it. I had it from my first placement at Bart's. I was so embarrassed when I saw the ones the other students were using, I hid this in the back of my cupboard. No-one thought to look there."

I simply stare at her; draped in cotton and holding aloft that device. She's cleaned her teeth (hurriedly, with a different toothbrush than usual) and attempted to tame her hair. Dimpled cheeks shine with honeysuckle scented soap (her second favourite, after grapefruit) and the joy of … discovery.

"Siedentopf binocular head is 30° inclined, rotates 360°, and includes dual diopters."

I stand, adjusting my sheet and moving towards her.

"It also has extra-bright premium 20-watt halogen illumination, with variable intensity control for glare-free and uniform specimen illumination… Sherlock?"

And as I take it from her grasp, I actually manage a smile (the first in at least fifteen hours, maybe more) and contemplate an unfamiliar warmth stealing through me, for which I have no reference points. It is something strong, confused and vertiginous which is both appealing and upsetting. Her brown eyes glitter happily as she relinquishes her prize (so easily) and I am breathless without knowing why.

"Thank you," I say, frowning.

I hate not knowing.

~x~

Isn't it obvious?

"Na-ah, Molly!" Disdain drips from each syllable, whilst still maintaining a softness; a warmth and affection in its tone. A most unusual and impressive achievement.

"That ain't nothing but a tincture! A distillation of belladonna needs at least another five minutes in the centrifuge."

"So YOU say!"

"So I KNOW! Hey we ain`t gonna start `aving trust issues are we? Are we gonna have us some WORDS, Molly `ooper?"

Such stern words spoken in such a teasing and respectful address would merely indicate to a third party overhearing such words that these two were not merely acquaintances, but actual friends.

If one had cause to be interested.

"Nah." She throws his words back at him, aping his tone. "Trust issues are for middle-class lentil eaters who are always looking for their inner-chi… we just hate each other, Wiggins."

He yelps out a gravelly bark of laughter and scraping of stools across polished laboratory floors can be heard, as if a scuffle might be underway. A good natured scuffle at that, since breathless exclamations and laughter punctuate the shifting of bodies and furniture. Eventually, all is realigned and his voice can be heard again, accompanied by the unmistakable woosh of the centrifuge ending its cycle and the lifting of lids and opening of drawers.

"You're stalling `ooper...am I right, or am I right?"

"You're pretty unbearable, actually."

"I'm just gonna wait…."

"Hmm."

"I`m right. Knew it. Seven percent solution, eh?"

"Shurrup."

More laughter, then another door opens into the lab as John Watson peers in, eyes lighting up in a smile of recognition.

"Ah, Molly… Wiggins, you here again? What is it with you, Molly, attracting all the nutters?"

"Hey!"

"Speaking of whom, have you seen Sherlock? He said he was on his way over here ages ago. Said to meet him - something about some deadly nightshade or something?"

The faintest creak of a poorly-oiled hinge from the other door into Lab 4.

"Talk of the devil." Molly's smile, both wicked and affectionate.

"Hi, Sherlock, just in time for the happy results- "

(A snort from Wiggins)

"Wotcha, Sherlock! Me an` Molly got it down pat. Dream team, eh Molly?"

John sees Sherlock`s smile, like a Great White, circling the leaking fishing boat, and gives his friend a pointed stare, which is studiously ignored.

"How utterly charming," he lifts the test tube, holding it to the light. "So nice to see you out and about after dark, Wiggins. They have obviously removed your- device."

Immediately, an element of cock-sure showboating emerges as Wiggins dangles his ankle, complete with electronic tag before his audience (in particular, in front of Molly Hooper, who should be less than encouraging but disappointingly appears to embolden his swagger).

"Found a way around it, didn`t I? S`amazing what you can do with your nan's knitting needle and a bit of solder. No-one knows where I am after six!"

Sherlock smiles again; vulpine, predatory.

Dangerous, thinks John Watson, his eyes darting between a wide-eyed, smiling Molly Hooper and the barracuda who used to be his friend (now consulting his phone).

"Wiggins, I must offer thanks for your assistance with the distillation, but it appears that Jaz,Tiggs and several lads from the squat are down at the Embankment, near the Eye. Something about a payout from Paulie?"

The punching of the air in a vaguely triumphant motioning indicates this is good news, and Wiggins takes his leave, with a wave and a wink (the latter directed at the only pathologist in the room), leaving just the swinging door and miasma of city grime in the air behind him.

It isn't until Sherlock and he are on the staircase that leads out into Giltspur Street that John Watson is struck by a sudden notion that halts him in his tracks.

"The London Eye?"

Sherlock has halted also, but doesn't meet the eyes of his friend in the dimly-lit stairwell, which sort of tells John all he needs to know.

"Sherlock - isn't the London Eye the exact place- "

"Mmm…?"

"No, Sherlock - the EXACT place that Lestrade and half the Met are, at this minute, waiting for an informant to turn up? The place will be crawling with police, and Wiggins will be waltzing right into-"

John stops, giving Sherlock the darkest of stares and shoving his hands deep into his jacket in a gesture of disgust.

"This is poorly done, my friend."

"John, I had completely forgotten-"

"No, no you hadn`t forgotten, Sherlock. You haven't forgotten anything since you were three months old, bar fetching milk and returning your mother`s phone calls, so don't try to wriggle out of this one!"

John Watson is exuding repressed and vehement anger through every pore, and Sherlock wisely chooses to say nothing, yet there is something else in the mix which perks his interest as he watches his friend attempt to master his vexation…

Empathy? Pity? Surely not. And yet, Sherlock feels certain that something akin to these two emotions was the only thing preventing his friend from punching him in the face at that moment.

"John, I- "

But Captain Watson`s eyes are on him in a millisecond, silencing with a single look.

"Just sort it out, Sherlock - this is bloody ridiculous! Sort. It. Out." A pause, heavy with intent and pent up frustration.

"Or I will."

~x~