The sound of a piano, followed by a trumpet filled the morgue. A sultry woman's voice joined the music. After a moment, the volume went up a few ticks, another voice joined the woman's on the radio.

Sherlock frowned. Tonight was not Molly's usual night in the morgue. In fact lately she'd been spending Friday nights with Mary and Anthea, it was their girls' night out. Plans must have changed. Oh well. Sherlock could very well perform his experiment around Molly. Looking back into the morgue he saw a cart that had just been wheeled in. Pulling back the tarp, he studied the body for a moment. It was an elderly woman, one from the dementia unit from upstairs. Probably died from natural causes. How tedious.

He was about to speak when Molly came into view and Sherlock nearly swallowed his tongue. Through the doors of the morgue, he could see her moving around her office, hanging up her coat as she swayed in time to the music. One hand on the desk she bent, removing her heels, scuffling her feet into her fast flats. Straightening, she made her way around her office, switching lamps on as she danced in time to the music. She must have been on call. This was…less than tedious. Oblivious to the consulting detective, Molly shed her jacket, reaching for her lab coat. He could see the red silky material of her new frock (way off the shoulder, good grief, Molly Hooper) before she secured the buttons down the front. Taking an elastic hair-band from one of the pockets, she quickly braided her hair, singing along with her music

She walked in time to the music, swinging her hips with the beat as she pulled out her tools.

"Evening," she said as she passed him, she squeezed his shoulder in passing, and he felt his heart quicken. It was a fairly new thing she'd begun doing, her form of greeting him when they were at Barts together. He'd come to appreciate her hand on his shoulder or arm. "I suppose you already figured out Mrs. Steinbeck's cause of death was old-age. No family, so if you need something, speak up." She went on singing along with the music, and he felt himself quite transfixed by her. What had changed? Why was he so fascinated by her? It wasn't as if he'd never seen her dressed up, it wasn't that she had never sung in his presence before.

Lately, Sherlock had found himself thinking of Molly. Rather a lot, actually. Perhaps it was because she was well over 'Meat-Dagger'. In fact she seemed happy, very happy. He couldn't fathom why. Usually she was only this happy when she was dating someone. Oh. So that was it. But she hadn't received any of the usual gifts she often received from the average type of man. No cheap flowers, no chocolates from Tesco's or insinuating texts that made her turn red with embarrassment. How odd. He must have missed something.

"Sherlock? Hello?" she waved her hand in front of his face and he blinked, shaking his head.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said do you need anything from Mrs. Steinbeck? She was old, but some of her organs are still okay if you need something." He'd forgotten everything else but Molly Hooper singing along with the radio, checking her autopsy saws, setting up the towel clamps.

"Uh…it was an esophagus."

"Right," she smiled, snapping on her gloves, setting to work.

"Sorry you had to cancel your girls' night out." She shrugged in response.

"It was my turn to be on call, besides; Anthea and Mary were busy anyway." She handed him the box of latex gloves. "Gloves, Sherlock, and goggles, you'd best find an apron if you're going to watch." He took the items obediently, still studying her, trying to discern what exactly was different about her.

Another hour and a half and Molly was tossing her stained lab coat into the laundry hamper, smiling at him.

"You're quiet tonight," she said, moving to the sink, washing her hands.

"Hm."

"Anything on your mind?"

"Hm? No, not…particularly…" he murmured, and she shrugged and again he was transfixed, watching her retreating form.

She filed the paperwork, locking her cabinet and began gathering her things. Immediately, he reached for her coat, helping her into it before clearing her hair from under her collar. Another habit he had taken upon himself recently, helping Molly into her coat, or holding her things if her hands were full. He'd already grabbed his coat; in his free hand he carried her heels. She turned, taking his scarf from the hook on the wall, tying it around his neck.

"I know why you're so happy," he blurted. Her eyebrow quirked up and the knowing smile emerged again.

"Oh?"

"Yes. It's obvious. You have a beau."

"You're right, I do." Rising on tiptoe, she kissed him tenderly. She felt him smile against her mouth after a moment, and when they pulled apart, he took a breath.

"Oh…" he murmured. "Oh it's me, isn't it?" she laughed as he slipped his arms around her waist, still holding onto her shoes. "Molly Hooper how long were you going to keep me in the dark about our relationship?"

"Mary and Anthea made me promise to let you figure it out on your own," she said. "But to be fair, you always miss something. If you still were wondering in three months I'd have told you." He was counting forward from the time he'd noticed the small changes in his life (actual food in his fridge, Molly's favorite mug in his cupboard, and Mrs. Hudson had recently increased her amount of biscuits she baked for him, obviously for the fact that Molly had been coming over to 221b on a regular basis).

Oh.

"Are you counting these past five weeks as dates?"

"Sure," she shrugged. "We have dinner whenever I come over to 221b, or when you came in to Barts and it was just the two of us. You've been awfully nice to get us coffee or crisps whenever we needed them."

"Hmm, I don't recall you wearing anything like this during my experiments," he looked approvingly at her dress, half-hidden by her coat. It was the sort of dress one would expect to be worn on a date. Sherlock disliked dinner dates. They were tedious, and often inspired ridiculous expectations that he did not want to be forced to fulfill.

"Anthea dared me to," Molly confessed. "Well…Mary dared me to wear just my pants, but I don't think I'm that brave."

"Indeed, if you had, I don't think I'd have stood a chance, you can be quite charming when you don't know it." He bent his head, kissing her this time.

"There was some doubt whether you'd notice at all," Molly laughed and he looked incensed. "Are you hungry?" She asked, gathering her purse.

"I could eat, fancy some fish and chips?"

"Your place or mine?" she smiled. Slipping her fingers into the crook of his arm, she let him lead the way out of her office, shutting the lights off as they went.