A/N: This is an outtake, specifically chapter nine from Sherlock's POV. Ideally I'd recommend rereading chapter eight, then this, then chapter ten for the full effect. This started as a writing exercise for me, to help me figure out Sherlock's feelings and inner conflict, but I ended up liking it and decided to share it. The deductions part is an excellent example of a little knowledge being a dangerous thing; don't take me too seriously there.

For those who asked, yes, there will be a sequel-but not until after I finish the big HP project I'm working on. Those guys have been waiting ten months already.

Sherlock approached the morgue doors carefully this time, stopping directly in front of them before pushing with outstretched arms, allowing plenty of room for his nose. The doors gave under his touch and he strode through briskly, unsurprised to see Lestrade had already arrived since Molly had unlocked the door. And John was here too, excellent.

"Good, you're all here. I have a very busy day—"

John turned around and Molly came into view. Sherlock froze, his brain refusing to do anything other than catalogue visual input. Abundant visual input. No lab coat, dress—blue—navy. Square neckline that exposes her clavicles and some foldy-pleat thing under the bust that makes her look curvier than she—

"The East End," Molly said.

Sherlock finally looked at her face, and she met his gaze. Her hair was done up. He knew he was staring—Molly was giving him the even, patient look she wore whenever he stared at her—but it was several seconds before he could force his brain to actually process the stimuli it was receiving.

"You're teaching today." Stupid, stupid! Of course she was teaching, any idiot could see that. Molly didn't dress like that for work, and she wouldn't have a date at seven o'clock in the morning.

"Yes."

He was having difficulty reconciling the facts despite the evidence of his own eyes. He had come here expecting (maybe a slightly angry) lab!Molly, not this—this shapeshifter.

"But you worked all night."

She was wearing concealer and foundation to hide the effects, and— Sherlock's heart thudded—lipstick. Molly hadn't worn lipstick in ages.

"It's my job."

The movement of her mouth caught his attention. It looked wet, the glossy shine making him wonder if the texture was smooth or sticky, if she would taste like the emollients and clays it contained.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "If you could just show us the body…."

Molly jumped. "Oh! Of course."

She moved to the sink for gloves and came round the exam table in front of Sherlock, well inside his personal space. He inhaled as her head passed under his nose and was not disappointed— just the slightest hint of formaldehyde overpowered by lemon verbena. All of Molly, not just her hair, had smelled like a citrus grove that night, the scent becoming stronger when her skin heated under his touch.

She's wearing heels.

He was already following her by the time he reached this conclusion, deduced not by looking at her feet but by watching the sway of her hips. Molly normally had a very functional gait with a short stride dictated by her height and, despite her gender, minimal pelvic movement with her foot placement approximating the width of her hips. This was different: rotation of the hip forward and inward, her feet not directly in front of each other but on either side of a straight line. In fact, she walked like she'd just—

No, no, no, we are NOT remembering Molly doing that. We can't remember it, we deleted it—

Molly bent forward to pull back the sheet, arching her back slightly for balance. Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets and brought them forward.

He loved this coat for so many reasons.

His right hand touched his magnifying glass and the now-exposed corpse reminded him of his purpose. He latched onto the distraction (no, wait—Molly is the distraction, the corpse is The Case), listening to Molly and Lestrade's conversation on cause of death with half an ear.

Until his elbow bumped something soft. And round. And not good.

Still bent over the body on the table, he looked up past her breasts (don't stare, do not stare) to find Molly looking down at him.

"Oh, ex-excuse me. I just need—" He indicated the lower half of the woman's body, careful to keep the gesture within his own frame.

That really was an incredible dress.

"Of course," Molly said politely. But she didn't move. Most unusual, an unaccommodating Molly. But apparently not today.

Sherlock straightened, stretched one long leg to the side to step away from her, then moved a full stride forward before returning to the table, looking over his shoulder to ensure ample space remained between them before resuming his examination, again only half-listening to Molly.

"… tread pattern."

"It will be a workman's boot, such as those worn in construction," he said without looking up.

Mycroft was right—this woman's death had nothing to do with his operation. "Her assailant is someone she knows intimately, a husband or lover." Sherlock snapped his magnifying glass closed and returned it to his pocket. "One hundred seventy-seven point … eight centimeters," he decided, picturing the woman upright and estimating the angle of the blows. "About thirteen stone, a construction worker, probably a welder. They lived by the water, though not in any structure you or I would consider housing. She was a seamstress, not a very good one—"

"Sherlock!" Molly protested.

"Look at her hands," he said, grabbing one of them and turning it over.

"Any sharp instrument could have made those punctures."

"Not anything," Sherlock corrected. "A thin, pointed object. A needle or pin."

"Her vitreous glucose was three hundred and five," Molly said flatly.

Sherlock dropped the hand. "She's diabetic?"

Molly didn't dignify the obvious with an answer. She stood on the other side of the exam table with her arms crossed (which also made her breasts look fuller—a factual observation, nothing more, Sherlock assured himself) and her back rigid, chin jutted out like when she was trying to be firm with him about cleaning up after himself or informing her when he used the last of a solvent or something equally tedious.

"Look," Sherlock said, circling the table to the foot, eager to banish this cold, frowning version of his pathologist, and what better way to do that than by impressing her with his brilliance? "Her skin and toenails are rife with fungus, but not ordinary tinea pedis. Indicative of chronic exposure to moisture, and while some people have excessive diaphoresis even in the winter, she has no more bromhidrosis than one would expect of someone with her lack of hygiene habits."

He felt his nose turn up without his permission, and Molly's blank expression hardened at his criticism of the victim. He'd have to do better.

"Microscopic examination of a scrape would confirm mitosporic lotic fungi, thus, they lived near the Thames. It's too cold for her to be walking along the river or its tidal pools, and she has no calluses or abrasions to indicate she's been barefoot, meaning her home is in poor condition indeed. A reasonable conclusion supported by her general malnutrition as evidenced by her weight, skin, and hair." Sherlock picked up a hank of the woman's limp, stringy hair and let it fall, finishing it all off with a smile.

Molly raised one eyebrow. "Anything else?"

Sherlock looked away from her, disappointed. John and Greg were close together in hushed conversation. That couldn't be good.

"Er, no. You already know about the abuse—multiple relationships, starting in childhood."

"As you said, she's been repeatedly abused her entire life. At least one of her boyfriends was fond of the torso—bruises don't show there, you see." Her voice was tight, her words clipped, and Sherlock began to suspect not all her anger was directed at him. As she talked, Molly crossed the woman's left ankle over her right, moved her left arm over her stomach, and with a practiced heave on shoulder and hip, turned nine stone of dead weight, exposing a scar on the woman's back.

"She took multiple blows to the upper abdomen and flank through the course of her life, including a knife wound. Repeated trauma to the pancreas is probably the cause of her diabetes, as her body mass certainly isn't a risk factor. And if you'd taken a proper look at her hands and not just her feet, not only would you have seen her dominant right hand is also callused from frequent punctures, which you wouldn't get with needlework, but there are multiple small burns as well. Nothing uniform like a cigarette butt or a poker, so not part of her abuse. That combined with the corneal inflammation from inconsistent use of protective gear means she's the welder, not her assailant. Well, I can't prove that he's not just from her body, but…."

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. It was always something.

"I need to see the crime scene," he announced, walking away from Molly. "Molly can tell you my observations." He knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it, but … it had hardly been the best of mornings.

"Molly can tell you her observations because she's the one who did the postmortem." He felt the sting of her words on his back. "I'm not your assistant, Sherlock."

Sherlock spun on his heel before he even realized he'd recognized the sound of peeling rubber. He hadn't made her that mad, had he? Not pee-in-a-jar mad, surely. He watched closely, but even after Molly threw her gloves in the bin, she made no move to approach him. In fact, she didn't even look at him.

Sherlock's hand twitched with the need to reach up and rub his stinging face.

"Would it have killed you to tell her she looked nice today?" John's voice interrupted the sense memory.

"I have no doubt you and Gary covered that quite thoroughly before I arrived." Sherlock glared at the older man, even though he knew it was his own fault he couldn't pay Molly a compliment anymore. She didn't believe him.

Repeated manipulation will do that to a relationship.

How many times do I have to tell you, Sherlock? Caring is not—

He mentally stuffed Mycroft with his own tie.

"I was here for a case." Sherlock began buttoning his coat.

John rolled his eyes. "Multi-task, Sherlock. I've seen you charm women out of their flats, their cars, their bloody shoes! Yet you won't pay Molly one simple compliment. And what was that bit about her telling us your observations? She's a pathologist, one of the best in London! You can't just dismiss her like that."

John's dig at what Sherlock knew to be an inexcusable mistake—Molly was the best, it's why he worked with her—was the final straw.

"Just because you're not getting any sex is no reason to take it out on the rest of us," Sherlock said haughtily, snugging his scarf against his throat. "How old is Josephine now, five weeks? Less than seven days to go, Doctor."

John clenched his jaw. "I'm going to work. You're on your own."

Even with nearly four decades of practice, it was hard to hide how much that hurt.