Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock". Just poking things with sticks to see what happens. Set pre-series 1.

The murder that is described is something I read about in a Reader's Digest magazine many years ago as a tween in an article about some of the more memorable autopsies of a pathologist that just stayed in my memory and decided to make itself useful. I haven't been able to track down any online archive to give credit where it's due, unfortunately, but have discovered that similar deaths/assaults seem to have happened last year in Texas and in a 1992 movie and elsewhere over the years…

Special thanks to the LiveJournal comms hp_britglish and sh_britglish for helping me on a couple of legal bits and some details.

"Sherlock, you've taken all my slides!"

"Here they are." He didn't lift his eyes from the microscope but unerringly picked up the half-empty box of new slides and held it out to her.

Molly huffed at the strand of hair that had worked its way out of her ponytail and under her goggles and went to retrieve what she needed. She took half-a-dozen slides and left the box with him.

Sherlock set the box back in its spot, his gaze never wavering from the magnified tissue sample as he waited to see if the new combination of chemicals would detect the presence of mercury at a lower level than currently established. A tiny smile crept onto his face when she left the box. In the short time they had known each other she had already internalized his habits and needs – she knew that he intended to use most of the slides; otherwise he would have taken just a few and left the box in its usual place in the supply cupboard.

She took the sample she needed from the body she was working on, removed her goggles, and moved to the other microscope across from him to examine what she had found.

His own magnified show was a bust. He made a note of the results and looked up as she adjusted the focus of her scope. The set of her jaw shouted her frustration to him.

"Anything yet?"

"No. Do you have any of that agent you created for detecting gunpowder residue?"

Without replying, he rose and went to the end storage cupboard that had become his over the last few months. He selected the bottle she wanted and brought it back over. "I would think that measuring the splash pattern would give you the distance."

Molly sat back from the microscope and took the bottle, smoothing the rebellious lock of hair back with the other hand. "There's not enough to measure, just traces around the hole. I need to determine whether it really is gunpowder residue before I go on."

"Why would that be a question?" Sherlock glanced across the room at the corpse with a round hole in the centre of the forehead.

"There's no bullet."

"Really?"

"No bullet, no exit wound, and no sign at all that anyone dug around to get it out."

Intrigued in spite of himself, Sherlock went over to the body and picked up Molly's magnifying glass to take a closer look. "Odd angle."

"Yes, it's almost a perfect forty-five-degree angle to the left." She stopped talking to let him concentrate, happy to watch his face and those graceful hands for a moment.

"Interesting."

"What?" She moved to his side and peered over his shoulder.

Sherlock passed her the glass. "Who said it was a bullet wound?"

"The bobbies that found her."

"Jumping to conclusions. Look again, without assuming anything – a typical bullet would create at the very least a puckering around the hole from the force of entry. This hole is perfectly smooth and sinking inward slightly."

Molly straightened and blinked. "It's a stab wound!"

There's the clever girl. Sherlock congratulated himself again on choosing her when he began looking for a tame forensics person. "So the question is, what was used to stab her?"

She stared at the victim's face. "It would have to be rather strong, given that it was driven through the skull deeply enough to kill."

"I assume you wanted to check the dark flecks around the wound against gunpowder?"

"Exactly."

"Well, now that we know it's not a bullet wound, we should consider other things. How many bits are there to work with?"

"Seven."

"Not much room for error, then. Are any of them big enough to divide?"

"No, unfortunately."

"Well, then. Let's try this one instead…" Sherlock dove into his cabinet and began searching through the bottles.

Sherlock was carrying takeaway from his preferred Thai place up to his flat, his mind working away at half a dozen problems. The one foremost in his thoughts was Molly and her not-shooting victim. Their conclusions so far had drawn a bit of attention from the laboratory director for flying in the face of the initial police report, but one couldn't argue with the actual stab wound. Robinson had examined the body himself and grudgingly congratulated Molly for her observational skills.

(Sherlock had noted the man's juggling of the books to buy things like that second-hand Patek Phillipe watch and filed it away for future use should he become a problem for Molly. The situation at Bart's was too perfect to allow anything to disrupt it.)

They had eliminated metal and wood as sources of the residue, but had got no further. They had a precious five samples left and had held off any further tests at this point. They were looking for something narrow and rounded, at least three and a half inches long, and as Molly had correctly pointed out, strong enough to penetrate a skull.

Sherlock set the bag on the table and looked around the kitchen. Would the murder weapon be in the flat of the Berkart woman? What sorts of bits and bobs might be in a woman's flat? Would the murderer have tried to wash the weapon and replace it or take it with them? He whipped out his mobile to text Molly.

Please advise as to hobbies and activities of Cicely Berkart and confirm if sinks were searched for signs of cleaning weapon -SH

He gave it five minutes, eating the satays out of the container with his fingers, and impatiently shoved the rest of the meal into the chiller. Molly was usually very good about replying quickly, which meant she was doing something away from her phone. Taking a bath, up to her elbows in another autopsy, just possibly at the cinema.

He needed the proper setting. A place with a woman who might sew or cook or do all manner of things…

"Mrs Hudson!"

In the past two days, Sherlock had gone through three flats: a bewildered Mrs Hudson's, a reluctant Molly's, and the victim's. While there had been a myriad of possible weapons with the right shape, they could all be eliminated by virtue of being the wrong material or being too weak to withstand being thrust into a skull.

The bag with the replacement knitting needles for Mrs Hudson was hanging on the rack with his coat.

He looked up when Molly entered the lab, her footsteps sounding odd to his ears. Her shift was over and she had gone to her locker to change.

"Plans tonight, I take it?"

She put down her bag and wrap and began fiddling with something in her hand. "Just a get-together at my sister's place."

"Quite the get-together." Sherlock took in the sleeveless purple dress and her hair loose and brushed to shine. She wore a bit of makeup and was now putting in glittery earrings. She even had shiny high heels that showed off painted toenails.

With honest curiosity, Sherlock asked, "Why do women wear such shoes? Is the added height and posture change really worth the excruciating discomfort and long-term damage to the knees?"

"It's convention. Lots of people do uncomfortable things for the sake of convention."

"And do you always follow convention, Molly Hooper?"

She fastened the second earring before fixing her gaze on him and showing a bit of spirit. "No, sometimes I do something completely ghastly like becoming a forensic pathologist."

The chuckle burst out of him before he could stop it and Molly returned his smile. He watched as she picked up her bag and checked its contents, noting that the top of the table came to her hip rather than her waist. Curious again, he stood and walked over to her. The usual impression of a tiny girl, enhanced by the typical long and voluminous lab coat, was gone, replaced by this willowy creature with an extra…

"How many inches are those instruments of torture?"

She glanced down at the black straps. "Three and three-quarters, I believe."

That seemed right; where the top of her head normally came to somewhere around his chin, allowing him to tower over her, she now came up to his nose. Almost four inches would do it.

Though it hardly seems to be a stable four inches… He looked at the narrow round stilts supporting her entire weight.

Three and three-quarters? With that angle? Sherlock looked over at the freezer currently holding the Beckart body. "Molly, give me a shoe."

"What?" She looked at her feet, bewildered, for just two seconds, then her eyes widened as comprehension dawned. Without further protest, she lifted one foot and began working the buckle free, her other hand on the cupboard for balance.

He spun in place, his hands digging in his hair as the connections came crashing together. "Three and three-quarters in length, the right circumference of a high-fashion stiletto, the angle, strong enough to bear up to twelve stone or more, and—yes!" He turned back to Molly in triumph. "The residue! Shoe leather!"

She grinned and tossed her shoe to him, then undid the second shoe and kicked it off in order to walk easily. Without him even having to ask, she snatched a spare lab coat from the wall rack, thrusting her arms into the sleeves as she ran over to pull out the body.

Sherlock unzipped the bag and held the heel of the shoe carefully over the wound. "Calli—" The callipers to measure the diameter of the heel were pressed into his hand before he could even finish the request.

"It's almost a perfect fit. Nine millimetres." He passed the callipers back to her and pulled out his mobile to text the D.I. in charge of the case.

Suspect weapon in Beckart case to be heel of stiletto shoe. Search apartment for odd shoe, about 4-inch round heel covered in black leather, or check heels for recent evidence of cleaning -SH

He put his phone away and spotted Molly digging out the file to add to it. He was about to tell her to go on to her party when her mobile rang. He tidied the body to go back in its drawer while listening to her half of the conversation.

"Yes, he did… No, he's serious, we just measured from my shoe and it fits almost exactly… Black leather would explain the dark bits that were mistaken for gunpowder residue at first… Those shoes are stronger than you think, Detective Inspector. Two of them support the weight of a full-grown woman, after all… Yes, yes, we'll be here… Goodbye." She ended the call and immediately dialled another number. "Rachel, it's Molly. Something's come up at work and I don't know how long it will take… Yes, sorry, but we had a breakthrough in a case and I'm going to be needed. Don't wait on me, I'll ring if it takes less time than I expect… I know, please tell him how sorry I am… Ta."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as she dropped her phone into a pocket. "I thought it was a party."

She ducked her head slightly. "It's more of a dinner. Rachel and Geordie know this biologist. They thought we'd have a lot in common with our work."

"Ah, a blind date, then?"

"Yes. But this works out better. I looked him up online and …well, I'm sure he's a very nice person, but…"

"Didn't set your pulse to racing?" Sherlock was smiling openly at her now.

Molly gave up. Sherlock could always see through her. "No, he didn't."

"Is there anyone setting your pulse racing these days?"

Molly looked away suddenly, her face colouring, and Sherlock paused. It must be someone close by, someone here at Bart's, to make her shy away from answering. He paused, feeling as if he ought to change the subject for some reason, but she did it for him.

"Shall we take some X-rays or scans and see if we can get a better idea of the shape of the heel? If it tapers?" Molly headed for a cart in the corner.

"Excellent notion."

The tabloids played up the "Stiletto Murder" for over a fortnight until the arrest of one of Berkart's friends, a woman who had taken revenge for being the losing corner of a love triangle. She had been smart enough to take both shoes rather than leave a single one, but had not counted on Sherlock being able to deduce their presence from the empty slots in a shoe rack and a file of the charges on Berkart's credit card. She had also been stupid enough to sell said shoes on eBay since they were by a rather posh designer and fetched a tidy sum. Once the shoes had been retrieved from the buyer, Sherlock and Molly had been able to detect blood and brain tissue left in the seams despite the attempt at cleaning. It was Molly who determined that the killer had ensured that the shoe would go through the skull by using a heavy onyx paperweight on Beckart's night table as a hammer – the partial fingerprints left from a less-than-thorough wipe proved her theory.

A few days after the verdict, Sherlock was leaving a chippy with dinner when a middle-aged man who shouted "new money" fell into step beside him.

"You're Holmes, right? The detective?"

Sherlock didn't break stride, but began planning a roundabout route back to his flat that might take long enough to shake off this intrusion while arriving before his fish and chips got cold and required reheating. "May I ask who wants to know?"

"Sorry, Simon Berkart. Cicely was my niece, my brother's girl. Wanted to thank you for your part in helping catch her killer."

"Not at all."

"That D.I., Lestrade, told me it was illegal for me to give him or the autopsy doctor or the prosecutor anything worth over £20. Damn silly law if you ask me. If it's after the fact there's no issue with influence or corruption. He pointed me to some charity that tries to rehabilitate prisoners. Daft of him, but it's what he wanted. The prosecutor did the same thing, pointed me to a place funding scholarships for reading law."

Sherlock refrained from pointing out the slow, insidious creep of corruption that the law was intended to prevent. He was almost certain that a windfall was headed his way, in the amount of at least a couple hundred pounds, and he didn't want to interrupt the man's intentions. Lestrade was beginning to try harder, but his superintendent still refused to allow the budget to be used for fees for an intrusive consulting detective.

"But if you'll take it, being private and all, I'd just ask you to do something for that girl that did the autopsy work. Can you see your way clear to that?"

Sherlock nodded his assent. "I believe I can arrange that." He was already listing possibilities, mainly centring on the lab and equipment needs Molly had mentioned. Robinson had already proven himself to be less than concerned with the law.

"Good man. Here you go, with my deepest gratitude." He shoved a thick envelope into Sherlock's coat pocket before he could juggle his food to free a hand. Beckart peeled off to cross the street and disappeared into the crowd.

Sherlock arrived home with tolerably warm food and ate before fetching the envelope from his coat. It proved to be two thousand pounds, quite a bit more than Sherlock had deduced since the man had used £50 notes rather than £20. This was quite helpful indeed.

Molly came into the lab in a very good mood. Dr Robinson had stopped her on her way in to inform her that the lifting trolley she had been begging for would arrive within the week. She hated having to plead for help from the custodians or nurses when a body outweighed her and she needed help shifting it.

She went to check her desk for any new files and stopped short. A black box with a white satin ribbon was sitting there. Gold lettering in the corner proclaimed the contents to be truffles from the very trendy, very expensive William Curley chocolate shop.

"They're from me, just in case you were worried about being poisoned," Sherlock's voice echoed from the other side of the lab. He sat at his station, peering intently into his microscope as usual…not quite as usual. It appeared that Robinson had upgraded the scopes as well.

"Th-thank you, Sherlock. You d-didn't have to—" Damn, why must she stutter so?

"Of course I didn't. That makes it a surprise, or so I'm told." Now he sat up, rubbed his eyes briefly, then looked at her. "You've been quite helpful to me and I decided it was time to show it. Consider them a late birthday gift. Or in honour of the Queen's Jubilee. Or congratulations for obtaining a cat."

Getting hold of herself, Molly took a breath to calm her elevated heartbeat. "All the same, thank you. They're lovely." She retreated to her desk and moved the chocolates to the side, off the files waiting for her. Sherlock watched her a moment longer, impressed when she didn't seek to carry on the conversation or offer him one of the chocolates, then bent back to his microscope to hide the satisfaction in his eyes.

Yes, Doctor Molly Hooper had turned out to be quite a providential choice.

Author's Note: Thank you as always for reading! Comments and suggestions, especially Brit-picking, are always helpful.