AN: Hey, look, I managed to fix my formatting problem. Turns out I'm not that inept.

Sherlock Holmes was a creative man. This was a quality born out of necessity in order to weather the storms of boredom that plagued him. Creative experimentation ranged from tests in teeth enamel to electric shock to variations in pond organisms in every park in London. (The organisms were some of his favorite; all cataloged in their slides and listed by district.)

So when Sherlock got wind that Molly Hooper was studying the body of a man who'd been unable to grow finger nails during his lifetime, it seemed an excellent introduction to some new studies and further research.

He even brought his own little cooler to store the fingers he anticipated receiving.

The lab was his first stop, where he could deposit his coat and ask Molly if she'd allow him the honor of severing the fingers himself. The problem, however, was the absence of Molly in the lab.

Two techs looked up from their respective projects, one of whom was wasting his time with a dirty pipette, when Sherlock banged through the door.

His gaze swept around the room. "Molly said she'd be up here."

"You just missed her," one of the techs said. "Hooper got called down for an identification. She's in the morgue."

Sherlock issued a quick, distracted, quarter-hearted thank you as he pivoted back out the door, the cooler clattering against it as he went.

If she was already down there, this would all go much faster.

That was what he'd expected, he thought, as he traversed the fluorescent lit, scarcely populated halls when he finally reached a door with the little window on it, the room with the John Doe. He'd inquired about that particular body yesterday, as it was the only one requiring an identification and there couldn't be too many who'd miss a man who'd once run with a gang before taking a stabbing to the throat. While detachedly sad about the loss of life in general, Molly admitted relief over the obvious cause of death, as she'd not had it in her to perform another postmortem.

Sherlock was right, of course, that he knew Molly was in this room. He went to open the door when a spark of conscience slapped him on the wrist. His hand dropped.

It's an identification, he said to himself, or perhaps it was John's disembodied voice saying the words. The man Molly was speaking with, judging by his weight, height, age, and coloring, was presumably the dead man's brother. This, John told him without being at all present, was a sensitive, delicate, and personal matter. Molly is kind. Let Molly take her time.

Sherlock watched through the window as she remorsefully folded back the sheet. He watched the man tense in the violent way that high-strung men with aggression issues typically do.

Something not right set him into alarm.

A long time ago, when Sherlock was just a boy in school, he'd had one friend; Redbeard. The canine listened with patience to everything Sherlock ever said, including the off-hand insults and childish temper tantrums. Despite not understanding speech in the way only dogs could, he showered his human friend with more love and appreciation than he'd ever known and followed him closer than his own shadow. They explored as far as a child and dog could go when frontiering the countryside.

This did not end when Sherlock went to school. Redbeard was usually confined to the Holmes' property by the gate that stretched around the yard, but Redbeard could be an escape artist when determined and had managed to follow Sherlock's scent all the way to the school grounds. The usual commotion among children presented with an animal at school was instant. Kids leapt from the playground to approach and Sherlock, having been engrossed in a book, finally looked up to see his dog's nose mopping the concrete in search of him, rust-colored fur shining in the sunlight.

He'd jumped up in excitement and noticed the way Redbeard caught everyone's attention. He felt proud and a little bit smug. 'That's right, that's my dog, isn't he brilliant?' and knew everyone would agree as they continued to happily pet the red setter. At least until he saw one boy, a year higher, a foot taller, and possessing a name Sherlock never remembered. He was a boy who prided himself on being the playground bully in the school, known for bouts of cruel tantrums.

He'd neared the dog and tried to grab his ear, but because dogs have the uncanny ability to smell evil, even in shitty little boys, Redbeard turned his long-snouted muzzle and nipped him.

The children scattered. The boy who'd been bit became tense and angry and began to sweat profusely, gnashing his teeth between jaw clenches and neanderthalic fist balling. Sherlock was too far away to prevent what he saw coming, but he ran like a bullet anyway, book forgotten on the pavement as the other boy reared his leg back and kicked the dog to the ground, delivering another blow to his barrel-like setter chest.

Sherlock was on him like a rabid wolverine, tackling him to the ground and kicking up a storm of fists and feet. The children came bustling excitedly back, circling around them to witness a good fisticuffs and, though Sherlock hadn't realized it at the time, they'd cheered for him.

In the end, faculty intervened. Sherlock had literally come out on top, having pinned the older boy to the ground after exhausting himself from wailing on him. He'd been suspended for a week, but Redbeard didn't face any trouble and slept on his bed after Sherlock received a shockingly light scolding and rather a large amount of praise.

That was how Sherlock first learned to detect potentially dangerous signals in body language. It was too difficult to read humans any other way, seeing as they all say things they don't mean. It was also the catalyst for his father insisting that Sherlock learn to box.

So when Molly covered the body from view and came around the table, either brave, oblivious, or both, he'd felt his breath catch, hoping he'd be wrong, but knowing he wasn't. He began to open the door and everything happened very quickly.

Molly was saying something, probably softly and with empathy, placing a hand modestly on the man's shoulder. Like a coiled spring, he started violently and lashed out with a fist, striking her solidly across the face. She hardly made a sound beyond her body's painful crash to the floor.

The seconds it took to reach him were lost in the red that painted Sherlock's vision. He must've dropped the cooler on the way, favoring the feeling of his bare fists exacting retribution as they had years ago on a country school ground.

He couldn't help but grunt at the hard, swift impact when he landed the first blow. There was the satisfying crack of a nose being broken and somewhere, between the hits that followed rapidly and relentlessly, he wondered what else he could break. The man attempted an offense, but Sherlock batted his hands away like flies and gripped him by the front of his coat with one hand while tearing into his obnoxiously puffy coat pocket with the other. He ripped out an ill- concealed knife and threw it to the floor. Seems he runs with the same gang as his dearly departed brother.

It wasn't long before the struggling ceased. There was a weight pulling frantically at Sherlock's arm which had been cocked back for another strike, and the noise cleared from his head to be replaced by the sound of ragged breathing (his), strained breathing (the subhuman), and Molly's cries as she begged, "Stop, please, he's grieving!"

"He attacked you!" Sherlock shouted at her, outraged beyond belief.

"I know! But you'll kill him if you keep going!"

The arm Molly was clinging to lowered as Sherlock scrutinized his handiwork. It was a blood splattered mess and if Molly hadn't stopped him, only blood work would have proven his identity. There was a certain irony in there, he supposed.

Aside from the legal obligation to keep from killing the man, the only thing pulling Sherlock away and leaving the half dead body to slide ungracefully to the floor were the sobs that Molly was trying desperately to control.

A stampede in the hallway served as the only warning before the doors flew open and a flock of security and two male nurses burst in. They assessed the situation and, to Sherlock's faint amusement, the security approached him with forced menace to disguise their thinly veiled fear. He looked over at Molly, gloves missing from her hands and the mobile phone clutched in her grip. "Not him," she said. "Him." she gestured to the near unresponsive man on the floor.

They seemed terribly relieved by this as they avoided looking at the actual dead body in the room, and the nurses helped the battered man to A&E. Sherlock wondered if he'd done enough damage to send him to Royal London and out of Barts before deciding that he didn't really care.

"You alright?" Molly asked, adjusting the sheet over the corpse where it had come askew.

He pulled her away from it, hand on her elbow. She jerked away forcefully, surprising him. "Don't ask ridiculous questions, Molly, clearly I'm not the one injured. You need to get looked at. Preferably before the yard comes along."

"I'm fine."

Sherlock didn't think she looked "fine" at all. "You're attempting to deal with a body while your hands are bare."

Molly froze before yanking her hands from the morgue gurney and rushing to the sink where she soaped up diligently.

Sherlock requisitioned some lingering morgue assistants from outside to deal with the body and the mess while he escorted Molly upstairs. She resisted at first, trying to assure him that she was perfectly fine, but he wouldn't hear it until the doctor he'd forced on her patched her up and relayed "Bit swollen, put some ice on that, get some rest, and no, she's not concussed. May I have a look at that right hook?"

Molly was released with a small bandage on the cut that adorned the bruising swell of her cheekbone and an ice pack on the back of her head. Sherlock picked at the gauze covering his knuckles.

They had coffee in the cafeteria.

"You shouldn't have done that," Molly said, sipping her coffee and nursing the side of her head with a cold compress.

Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Shouldn't have done what? Defended you?"

"You nearly ended him!" She raised her voice shakily, calming back down when other staff glanced over.

Sherlock scoffed and said derisively, "Oh, I'm sure, because the world would be such a lesser place without a pusillanimous gang member who takes his anger out on women half his size." He squinted accusingly at the bandage on her face. "He deserved it."

"He was overwhelmed. Shocked with grief."

"I'm shocked with grief."

Molly gave him a raised eyebrow. "What are you grieving?"

"The apparent death of your intelligence."

"Sherlock..."

"Has this ever happened before?" he asked, feeling strangely remorseful if she were to say yes. Remorseful that he had to ask at all, because he would have noticed if there'd been any violence against her if he'd ever properly paid attention to begin with.

The way she tilted her head up in thought almost alarmed him. "Well, not really."

"'Not really'?"

"Someone grabbed me once, but that was years ago. Bruises on my arm for a week." She shrugged and sipped her coffee again. "It wasn't a big deal, I guess."

Sherlock couldn't stop the flood of annoyance that pooled inside of him. Was she so willing to accept violence against her? To make excuses for the offenders? To offer herself up as some sort of punching bag for the release of stress for the bereaved?

How was that okay?

Before a torrent of words escaped him on the subject, a chair was pulled out at their little table and DI Lestrade plopped himself down. "So, I heard there was an incident and of course Sherlock Holmes had to be involved somehow-" he stopped talking when he got a good look at Molly. "Christ, Molly, what exactly happened?"

Before Molly could open her mouth, Sherlock launched into recanting the entire episode of what had gone on downstairs. He didn't want Molly lessening the severity of it by sugar coating and expressing pity, so he made sure to be extra long winded and thorough. She couldn't get a word in edge-wise.

He was let off the hook, not that he'd been in any sort of trouble in the first place, and Molly hitched a ride home with Lestrade. Before leaving, she'd meekly told him thank you.

Lestrade had waited patiently by the exit.

"What for?" said Sherlock as Molly got up from her seat.

She blushed, saying, "You know what for."

She later maintained that he'd still overreacted, but that hadn't lessened the pride that swelled in his chest.

Sherlock had gone home that day, fingerless, but for his own. When he slept that night he saw Molly's face, a bruise blossoming against the stark whiteness of her skin and she acted perfectly okay with it. Sherlock woke, troubled.

Two days later, he went to see her at Barts in the lab.

Her skin was mottled with purple and blue. The swelling had gone down, but the colors were at their peak. "You look terrible, Molly," he said.

She frowned. "Thanks."

And then without preamble, Sherlock asked, "Did Tom ever hurt you? Or perhaps a different boyfriend?"

"What?" she turned her full, gaping attention on him. "Geez, no, of course not. Why are you asking that?"

"The nonchalance you seem to express with regards to violence on your person might indicate that it was a usual thing," Sherlock said, taking care to keep his voice neutral. "I'd like to be assured that's not the case; however, if it is-"

"It's not."

"Oh. Well, good," he nodded, surprised and wondering at the immense relief that doused him.

Molly glanced down for a second at the paperwork she'd been filling out. She took a breath that sounded a little more foreboding to Sherlock than it should. "I can understand your reasoning," she said. "For years, if anyone ignored me, or insulted me or hurt my feelings, I always let it slide and made excuses for them because I'd gotten so used to it."

Sherlock didn't need to be a detective to know she was talking about him. Something like remorse reared it's ghastly little head inside of him.

"So, thanks for your concern, but I'm perfectly fine. It was an isolated incident." She smiled briefly at him and went back to the paperwork.

Feeling oddly bereft at the way Molly had shut down the conversation, Sherlock couldn't help but stand awkwardly before her. He turned to leave with the intention of sorting out the unfinished, hollow feeling that lingered in his chest when Molly called out to him.

"Your box is in the freezer, just there," she said. When Sherlock opened the door to the unit she'd indicated, he saw the little cooler he'd left behind, sitting among jars and petri dishes. After flipping open the top he discovered four fingers and one thumb, all without fingernails.

The grin that cracked his face was instantaneous.

It was the following day when Sherlock met up with John at the scene of a death that he'd been assured was not murder, that anything about the previous happenings were mentioned again.

"So I heard you beat the shit out of a documented gang member," John said conversationally as Sherlock crouched next to the body of a dead forty-six year old man.

They were crowded among police and yellow tape at the base of some formidable concrete steps. The financial building to which they led towered over them, casting them in darker shadows than the clouds that filled the sky.

Marcus Mircoat would never see the sky again, as he'd been found very much dead at daybreak in an expensive suit by a passing jogger.

"Heard he deserved it, too," John continued when Sherlock said nothing. He was obviously fishing for gossip. Too much time with Mary and her friends, perhaps.

"Yes," Sherlock curtly replied, hoping John would drop the subject. "What would you say was the cause of this man's death?"

"I'd say the obvious, that it's a broken neck, but you're going to get all clever and tell me and the rest of the Met that we're all wrong. What made you do it?"

"Do what? I didn't kill him."

"I'm not talking about him, I'm talking about the pulpy mess you'd sent to Royal London," John crouched down next to him. "He was worse off than the American you'd tossed out the window. I'm not saying he didn't have what was coming to him, but how are you not getting charged for completely losing it?"

"He was also wanted on homicide charges. Two birds with one stone, quite efficient, don't you think?"

"And what did Molly think?"

Sherlock stood and harshly snapped off his gloves. "It doesn't matter what Molly thinks," he snapped. "For god's sake, John, we're at a crime scene, not a hair salon with Mrs. Hudson gossiping like old biddies and swapping stories."

John stood as well. "Well, none of those old biddies pounded the face off a street thug. Tell me when they do and I'll join them in getting a perm."

Sherlock scowled at him which was rewarded with John's faux innocent stare.

Lestrade joined them, heedless of Sherlock's irritation. "So, got anything other than 'he fell down the stairs', or can I wrap this up now?"

"He was murdered," Sherlock replied, irritation melting into more happiness than a man should be with that announcement.

Lestrade's face twisted in resignation as he ran a hand through his silver hair. "Alright. How do you figure?"

"He fell down the stairs, but he wasn't pushed; wasn't even conscious when he went down." Sherlock checked their faces for a flicker of understanding. Finding none, he continued, "What do you do when you fall?" He stepped back and held his hands out. "You bend your knees, you hold your hands out to catch yourself. There's no evidence on his knees where his trousers would have taken more damage than the rest of his suit and there isn't a scratch on his palms, but his face sustained the most damage - well, aside from his unfortunate neck. The forward momentum of his fall would have assured facial injury, indicating that he lost consciousness at the top of the steps."

"He might've had an underlying condition and fainted," John supplied. Sherlock shook his head.

"That fails to explain why he was here, which is the important question. He didn't work at this building according to your preliminary notes, but he died here between the hours of one and three in the morning when the place is locked up, wearing the same clothes as the day previous if those stains are anything to go by. So, why was he here?" Sherlock turned solely to Lestrade. "Check the security cameras and get a list of everyone he's had contact with in that building yesterday and you'll have your killer. In the mean time, best to get a full tox screen at Barts and figure out what's swimming in his system."

Due to time and the fascinating effects of rigor mortis, Sherlock was forced to wait for the results of the postmortem. Molly had taken one look at the suited body when it first arrived before saying "Oh, a working stiff. Now he's just stiff,"

No one had laughed. She'd coughed politely and resumed her duties.

A day after the autopsy, Molly was summoned to the morgue again. It was a call from a good friend of Mr. Mircoat coming to confirm the body, as the man's family were virtually nonexistent. Sherlock had been looking at coagulated blood samples when she announced that she was leaving, and without really considering why, he'd grabbed his coat and followed her.

"He's his friend, Sherlock," Molly said in the lift. "Don't interrogate him unless you absolutely have a reason to. And wait until I'm done, yeah?"

That was when Sherlock realized that he'd not even considered questioning the man. Sure, he would have thought of it later, but he couldn't help but think of why he'd actually followed Molly. She still looked beaten, the fresh scar over the colorful bruise still splashed on her face. Her lab coat was two sizes too big. She appeared terribly small and far too delicate.

He shook himself. That felt like a massive flood of caring, and a bit too much of it.

Questioning. He didn't intend to do so. At this stage, every possible acquaintance was a suspect and the best way to alert the real murderer was to give away the game. Letting them know the death was being treated as homicide would be amateurish. So he hung back near the lift when Molly met the man, and then waited outside the door where he could discreetly peer through the window as she spoke with him. He appeared at least ten years younger than Mircoat.

Molly was sympathetic and comforting as always, but there were no tears. There was an acute sadness, of course, but that seemed to stem from the man's acceptance of Mircoat's death over the past few days.

The door opened and Molly and the other man emerged, passing two assistants on their way to re-store the body. Sherlock stood straighter, pushing away from the wall where he'd been leaning, and caught Molly's attention. He plastered on a very fake smile.

"Ah, Molly. I was looking for you," he began, gaze flicking over at the man at her side. Expensive suit, like Mircoat. Meticulously styled hair, manicured nails, polished shoes, and a designer briefcase. There was a prominent callous on his right middle finger from extensive writing, eyes tired from long, late nights. Drinking, not working. A lawyer? No. Considering his connection to Mircoat, it was far more probable that he worked in finances.

Oh, this was too easy.

Molly was looking bemusedly at him. "Um..."

"Aren't you that detective fellow?" the man pointed, recognition bubbling in his eyes.

A muted light glowed through the pocket of Molly's lab coat. Her mobile was on silent, of course, so the only indication of it going off was Sherlock's eyes briefly turning towards it. Molly picked up on it and begged to be excused. "It's Stamford," she murmured to herself, settling a cool distance away.

Sherlock wasn't going to waste this opportunity. He extended his hand, "Sherlock Holmes. Are you a friend of Molly's?" He looked at Molly as he said this, but she was too distracted by her call to notice his act.

"Andrew Wellington," the man said, taking Sherlock's proffered hand. "And no, we've only just met. I'm actually here under far more unfortunate circumstances. We are in a morgue, after all. I heard you were actually called out to the scene? My friend- his name was Marcus-"

"Marcus Mircoat. Took an awful fall down the steps, yes, the police did waste my time with that despite what obviously killed him. I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Wellington said, and Sherlock wasn't planning on being friendly enough to try his given name.

"Was he a client of yours?" asked Sherlock.

"Excuse me?"

"You work for Bethel Forrester as a financial consultant and broker, yes?"

Wellington stilled, at a momentary loss.

Sherlock inclined his head. "Molly was holding your business card."

"Oh," he laughed, nervously. Sherlock tried not to intimidate the man, despite the urge to get outright accusatory. Wellington cleared his throat and reclaimed some confidence. "Yes, he was a client, but I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss his finances. Policies to adhere to and all." He smiled. "I know what you do, Mr. Holmes, but you're not, in fact, police, are you?

"I'm not, no," he conceded, giving the friendliest smile he could muster. "I was actually considering an account. You can't be too careful when it comes to saving for retirement, can you?"

"Right..." Just before the detective was about to recommend that Wellington can leave now, please, Sherlock followed the path of his eyes which were conspicuously lingering on Molly. "Is she seeing anyone?" he asked Sherlock, suddenly.

No. "Yes."

"Oh. Damn shame, then. Bit of a mark on her face there, but I wonder what she looks like under those frumpy clothes. Oh, sorry, that was a bit rude, wasn't it?" and he laughed obnoxiously.

Fists balled tightly in the pockets of his coat, a familiar and far off ringing, high pitched, lanced through Sherlock's ears. He startled himself with the intensity of it and forced himself to cool. He could analyze the waves of rage rolling off of him later. "Like I said," he sneered, "She's apparently taken."

Molly was saying goodbye repeatedly, attempts to hang up having always been a little awkward. When she did, she rushed over. "I'm so sorry. Mike needs me to-"

"-It's fine, Molly," Sherlock cut her off, still feeling bothered and suddenly off his game. He wanted to leave. Cheeks positively aching, Sherlock turned his terribly forced smile on Molly, saying, "If you would be so kind as to meet me in the lab when you're finished?"

"Oh," she raised her eyebrows at him. "Yeah, sure. I'll see you."

Stiffly, Sherlock nodded once. "Mr. Wellington."

Then he was scowling on his trek through the hospital. In the lift, he sent a text to Lestrade requesting a background check on Andrew Wellington, his mouth severely downturned. He was scowling still when he reached the lab and the disgruntled face never left him the entire time he sat at his microscope, waiting for Molly, and then his expression turned more severe when he realized he'd left her alone to see the man out. Not that he would do anything, he was sure. He was a suspect, nothing was solidly confirmed, it was broad daylight, the building fully staffed, and Molly was supposedly seeing someone. Why had he said that?

He hated the man. He had the overly happy act down to an art, the sycophantic charms aimed at his employers, he was sure, and the gall to pretend that every man was his best mate and let's all head out to the pub and watch football, eh?

"Guess who's going to be collaborating in new cell death research?" said Molly, sitting across the table. Sherlock hadn't heard her come in. After getting his attention, she pointed triumphantly to herself. "I am. Cell death in tumors, mainly. We'll be sharing research with some of the oncologists, and we're getting a brand new electron microscope and retiring the old one. They'll even train me to use it."

She was smiling widely, a faint blush on her cheeks. Molly always flushed so vibrantly.

"When will the tox screen results be ready?" asked Sherlock, pretending to ignore her news entirely.

The smile of hers wilted. "They can take weeks, Sherlock, but since we sort of know what to look for, hopefully only one week. Prescription drugs, right?"

"Hmm," he hummed in confirmation, resigned into his forced patience.

Over the next few days, Sherlock was forced to take a few simple side cases while Lestrade updated him on Andrew Wellington's pristine record. He'd also brought him a copy of the security footage of the building, showing Mircoat trudging sluggishly up the stairs where he waited for nearly half an hour before attempting to leave. He'd seized up and keeled over, meeting his end.

Dropping in at Barts everyday and staying longer than normal became habit. Sometimes John went with him, but was usually otherwise engaged with taking care of his newborn daughter. Mary kicked him out every now and then, for which Sherlock was grateful. And many times, Sherlock found himself in the morgue not to observe any bodies or execute an experiment, but to simply observe Molly.

He hadn't meant to.

She would be called away for identifications. Had she always been tasked with that? Was this something she'd been placing on her shoulders more often, or was it something he'd simply failed to notice?

He didn't know and he didn't ask.

What he did know was that when she was called away, he followed. Sherlock was never blatant about it, always hanging back, feeling unready to name the twinging in his chest when he thought about the time she'd been alone with that man who might've killed her. (Jim Moriarty had caused many deaths, but at least he'd never struck her.) Ghosts of that feeling flittered in his chest when he'd watch her leave and his feet would naturally, wordlessly, carry him with her. He'd wait outside the door, every time.

He'd listen to the sobs and the screams and the occasional vomiting as a loved one had their last shreds of hope -their last echo of denial- ripped away by seeing the departed before them, faces white and gaunt where the blood no longer flowed. He would listen to Molly console and assist and apologize for the world's wrongs as though the burden belonged to her.

He never remained by the door when she helped the bereaved out.

When she came back into the lab, often red-eyed, she would see him continuing with his experiments as if he'd never left. She would go back to her work as if she'd never left. It struck him, then, just how strong she was. How able. How willing, how kind.

How alone.

How unfair.

To make things worse, he'd had another dream about her. It was a fuzzy, disjointed dream, but she'd gotten married in it to a faceless man. There was white and wedding bells and cheers until Sherlock was suddenly alone, left behind with the quiet on the grounds of a church yard and wondering how he'd managed to be so terribly blind and obstinate. Wondering how a heartless man could hurt in the place that should, by definition, be empty.

He didn't sleep on cases, but he'd been forced to, seeing as some of his results were only dragging on. He called John that morning, eager as all hell to do something, so he didn't send a text that might potentially go ignored.

"What makes you suspect him?" John asked.

"Because he, as they say, 'jumped the gun'," Sherlock replied. "He immediately assumed I was looking for information regarding Mircoat's finances and arrogantly assured me that I would get none."

"Did he say anything else?"

Sherlock's lips curled at the memory of a leer towards Molly. "He got snide with me."

They met, again, at the scene of the crime. Sherlock slipped his friend two short lock picks, asked John if he remembered what he'd been taught, and they made their way up the stairs, passing a fountain and overly kept hedges until they were inside the building, for Sherlock had an appointment and John was briefed and ready to play along.

"Mr. Holmes, so good to see you again," Wellington greeted boisterously as they stepped into his office. It was a clear day and the sun shone brightly against the white expanse of the walls. There was a cabinet on one end full of drawers, but Sherlock wasn't interested in that. He was much more interested in the locked file drawer in Wellington's desk.

"Mr. Wellington." They shook hands. "Allow me to introduce my friend and colleague, John Watson."

"The famous blogger," Wellington greeted him as well. "It's an absolute honor, I must say. This office has never seen celebrities within its walls before, but I'd be lying if I said it hasn't seen an awful lot of money."

"Well I'm sure they'll be delighted to see a few hundred thousand pounds more." John's eyes to widened. "Of course, I need to get a feel for this company before I transfer any more than that."

Sherlock was lying. He definitely did not have that much money.

"Oh yes, of course. What would you like to know?"

"Services. First of all, I don't like to fill out forms."

"Alright."

"I don't like to get ink on my hands, you see. Rather delicate skin."

"Okay." Wellington looked a tad wary, but kept on. He handed various account pamphlets to the detective, who passed them over to John without a glance.

"And the other thing, you see, is-" Sherlock coughed. "Excuse me, is that-" and he coughed again. Violently. He continued to hack and cough and sputter like a sick man and John pretended to worry, slapping him on the back like an overgrown colicky baby.

"Are you quite alright, Mr. Holmes?" Wellington asked, half out of his seat.

"Water," wheezed Sherlock in full blown theatrics. "I need water. Not tap, I need filtered, maybe bottled. Can you perhaps direct me?"

"Of course!" And Wellington was up and guiding Sherlock out of the office as he shook in his episode of fakery, simultaneously ordering John to stay put and they'll be back in a moment.

John slipped the lock picks out of his coat and got to work.

Meanwhile, in a spacious break room, Sherlock was sucking down a bottle of water. In all honesty he did need it. Surviving on coffee wasn't particularly healthy, among his other bodily abuses.

"I do apologize for that," Sherlock said in supposed earnest. "Long term smoking is finally taking its toll, I suppose."

"Those things'll kill you, that's for sure," the other man agreed.

"As John frequently reminds me."

A slyness crept into Wellington's eyes as he sat down abruptly, opposite from Sherlock at the little white round table. "Speaking of your friends," Wellington began, looking like a pal with a secret to share. "Have you got the hots for that little morgue bird? Molly Hooper?"

Instantly, Sherlock didn't feel like acting anymore. He continued regardless. The game was on. He scoffed. "Doctor Hooper is something of a colleague and I'm really rather married to my work."

"You tryin' to cheat on your job, then? Cause you told me she was seeing someone, so then I thought I'd ask her myself and she told me she wasn't."

"Maybe she's the one trying for an affair."

"She doesn't seem the type. All sweet and innocent, isn't she?"

Sherlock told himself not to haul off and punch him. He didn't like where this conversation was going at all. Not. One. Bit.

The ringing in his head came back.

"So then," the man continued, and Sherlock really did hate his name because it reminded him of beef wellingtons and rain boots, "I asked her out. We had lunch and we're having dinner tomorrow at Locanda Locatelli. If she doesn't put out, then I'm sure I can persuade her by the third date. Those sorts of women are suckers for a man who finally pays attention to-"

"-Stay away from Doctor Hooper."

There was a brief silence. "So you do have it in for her," said Wellington, and Sherlock wanted to slap the grin off his face.

The ringing was deafening and he could feel it begin to pound itself into a migraine. This moron... Sherlock was, for a moment, under the impression that he was being taunted, somehow. There would have been a minute cause for alarm were that the case, but it was clear that the man was a complete show-off. And a complete idiot, attempting to connect with Sherlock in some ridiculous, primitive, stone-age way, blathering and bragging about his potential conquests (not that Molly would fall for him at all) over bottles of water instead of a pint.

The chair squeaked across the tiled floor as Sherlock stood to his full height and towered over him. "As much as I appreciate your attempts at candid personal sharing..." He paused, and with calm malevolence of low pitch, said, "No, actually, I don't appreciate it. I'm going to tell you something very important that may be crucial to your physical well-being; stay away from Molly Hooper. I'll not repeat it a third time. Shall we go back to your office now?"

It was clear that any friendly pretenses on Sherlock's behalf were off. Wellington seemed to have taken the hint (or threat, really), and they waded back to his office through thick, suffocating anger.

John was lounging in his chair, feet propped on the desk, feigning a nap. He made a show of waking up, sniffing and wiping drool away from the corner of his mouth and Sherlock, through his fuming, felt a rush of pride that he was John Watson's best friend.

"John, we're done here."

"Oh, good."

And they rushed out, just short of an actual run.

Sherlock was still angry when they marched down the stairs outside. John was having a grand time, missing the thrill of snooping in places he shouldn't, but Sherlock was busy vibrating in his attempts to quell the bizarre feelings still running through his veins.

"Sherlock, we're out of there, you can drop the standoffish act, now," John said, his pace brisk as he tried to keep up with the taller man.

"That man's a bigger arsehole than I am," Sherlock muttered loudly. "What did you find, assuming you managed to get the lock?"

"I got the lock just fine, thanks for the vote of confidence. Will you slow down a moment? What's got into you?"

"Nothing's got into me. Why would something get into me?"

"I don't know, but if anyone's being a bigger arsehole than you, it's you."

Sherlock whirled around when they reached the street. "How does that even work?"

John shrugged. "Just get a cab. We need to get to Barts and bother the hell out of Molly for that tox screen."

Unfortunately, Molly was out when they arrived. Texts received no response, so he abandoned John in the lab and searched the cafeteria and coffee shop. With no luck there, he checked the morgue and then went to the women's locker room to wait.

She always deposited her bag in her locker.

He paced outside the door for fifteen minutes going on fifteen hours, the cab ride with John replaying in his head.

He'd shoved his mobile into Sherlock's hand. "I'm the last person who'd be an expert in finances, but these are records of private transactions with what I'm assuming are client accounts."

Sherlock had swiped through the images. One after the other was a picture of large accounts and hastily scribbled notes. There were doubles of percentage fees and siphoned dividends, highlights of a name he recognized receiving the funds into a foreign bank account. One particularly large amount was from a Marcus M.

"So Andrew Wellington was skimming money from client accounts," Sherlock said. "Not too much, not enough to be noticed, at least not until Mircoat saw what was going on. How many of these were there?"

"Enough to incriminate him. His computer was password protected, so I couldn't check that."

"He wouldn't keep these records on his computer. A firm like that, they'd have everyone networked."

Sherlock reached the last image before descending into a multitude of baby pictures. "What is... Ohhh."

"Yeah. Found that in his briefcase."

An image of a prescription bottle filled the screen, and Sherlock could barely contain himself. "Phenobarbitone."

"Dangerous stuff."

"Hm."

"A 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss."

And John had looked so damn pleased with himself, so Sherlock hadn't said thank you, but said, "John, you are brilliant," and that was even better.

"Thanks."

"Not as bright as I am, but you have your shining moments."

Couldn't let it get to his head, after all.