1894

Scouring the depths of London's dark streets, two gentlemen accompany the Detective Inspector to the scene of the crime that had occurred only two hours ago. They are fresh on the trail of a man who plans to terrorize the city for months, and to never make it easy for anyone to figure out when or where he may strike next.

"Dear God, Holmes, what do you make of this?" John Watson asked his colleague, his face twisted in horror, gesturing toward the young woman lying cold on the dark city street. She had been brutally murdered, as her intestines were in a jumble sprouting from within her. Her stomach appeared to be missing as well. It was a most gruesome sight, indeed.

Sherlock Holmes, a distinguished and somewhat modern gentleman of his time, studied the body for any leads. He scrunched his nose in the slightest as he bent down to survey the handiwork of the murderer. Tracing a gloved finger over one side of the opening, he noticed how clean the cut was. "Whomever opened this woman up has a clear understanding of medical procedures, and a tenacity for the most gruesome murders, not unlike another madman who had been running around." His voice was a deep baritone, smooth as whisky.

Watson paced frantically, his bushy mustache in motion from the way he was wriggling his nose. "You don't mean to say that The Ripper is back, do you, Holmes?"

"Who is to say he ever left?" Sherlock quipped, a smirk showing upon his face. "It may be him, or it may be another who was inspired by The Ripper's work." He brought up a calloused hand to smooth his already slicked-back hair. "I have reason to believe it is the latter, as the victim was not a woman of the streets." He paused, and pointed toward her hand. "For instance, gripped in her hand is a nursing chatelaine. If you notice," he continued, lifting an item hanging from the chatelaine, "these scissors were used to ward off her attacker as you can see from the bloodstains. It does concern me, however, that this is the second nurse to have been killed in the span of three weeks."

"Fascinating, Holmes," Watson mused. "How in the devil do you do it?" It was a rhetorical question, though Sherlock seemed to find it a necessity to answer it for the simple-minded. They continued to converse, both oblivious to the fact that they were not alone. Neither realised there had been a pair of eyes watching them throughout the ordeal, also fascinated by the accuracy of Sherlock's deductions.

Ah, the scent of formaldehyde was a welcoming one. It marked what his elder brother, Mycroft, deemed his 'home away from home.' The hospital was bustling as usual with nurses and doctors taking care of their many patients. Sherlock walked through the west corridor toward the main office when a nurse bumped right into him.

"Oh, I am so terribly sorry, sir!" She bent down to pick up the towels she had dropped; only standing upright to face him when they were decently re-folded. Sherlock took note of her appearance right away. Her chestnut locks were curled, and up tight against her head despite the flyaway hairs that stuck to her face. Her eyes were a deep shade of brown, and sparkled beautifully. She had a petite stature, only coming up to his chest. There was a stethoscope hanging from around her shoulders, and her chatelaine was properly attached at the waist.

He nodded his head in acknowledgment. "All is well, Miss…"

"Hooper," she informed him, a sweet smile showing on her face. "Margaret Hooper, but you can call me Molly. May I ask for your name?"

"Oh, well, it's—"

"Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe!" Mike Stamford exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "I see you've met our most promising nurse! Miss Molly Hooper is an excellent nurse, and a gifted pathologist to boot!" This small fact had suddenly fascinated the detective.

"A pathologist? Is that right?" He flashed a smile of pure wonderment. Miss Hooper, however, appeared to be avoiding his gaze. "You must be quite brilliant!" Sherlock had always been supportive of women getting ahead in what society deemed 'a man's world.' This, however, was the first time he'd come across such a woman in person.

"Thank you, kindly, Mister Holmes," she replied in a gentle tone of voice. "If you were to ever find yourself in need of service of the forensic nature, do not hesitate to call on me." With a subtle nod of her head, she left the two men for her nursing duties. Stamford just so happened to notice the way Sherlock's eyes followed after her until she disappeared around the corner. Perhaps, the detective had finally found himself bewitched by a woman whose intelligence could be a match for his own.

Stamford spoke up to recapture Holmes's attention. "So, what is it you need to talk with me about?"

Sherlock quickly snapped out of his thoughts, replying, "Oh yes, I was going to ask if you've any reason to be wary around any of your employees? Particularly male."

"None that I can think of; they all seem pretty sane to me," Stamford joked with a belly laugh. "Is there a reason for such an inquiry?"

"We found a woman murdered late last night; another nurse. No identification yet, but it looks as if the murderer has extensive medical knowledge. I have reason to believe that the nurses you have employed here may be in grave danger." Sherlock immediately thought of Miss Hooper on a slab, herself, but banished the thought from his mind. "Let me know if you suspect anyone, Stamford. It could save lives."

With a flourish, Sherlock rushed out of the hospital doors, eager to view the preliminary results of the autopsy that Lestrade had acquired. He was fairly certain that if or when there was another murder, Sherlock would make his preference of pathologist known. It was strange to him to feel a strong connection with someone after only just meeting them, but there was something about Miss Hooper that fascinated him. For somebody who was surrounded by death, she was quite the cheerful damsel.

2016

Molly Hooper had been feeling odd for the past couple of weeks, for that's how long it had been since the phone call Eurus Holmes had forced Sherlock to make. Granted, she and Sherlock have been in a relationship since then as well, but it still took some getting used to. Molly thought at first that it was just the usual jitters she was used to getting around him lately, but couldn't help but think it was something else causing it. As to what it could be, she hadn't the faintest idea. Instead of dwelling on the growing anxiety, she decided to snap on a pair of latex gloves in preparation for the autopsy she was called in by Stamford for.

"Victim's name is Lucille Hornsby," she spoke into the voice recorder. "Thirty-two years old. Victim appears to have been murdered by way of strangulation, followed by the removal of the lungs. Incisions appear to be of a professional nature, as the organs appear to have been extracted with great care." Releasing the record button, Molly felt her stomach coil in knots, feeling a pair of eyes on her. She dared not turn around, for fear had struck her frozen.

"Don't stop on my account, darling."

Whirling around, Molly exhaled heavily, a hand pressed against her chest. "Jesus, Sherlock, you scared the devil out of me!"

"Quite the statement, Molly," he replied, obviously amused. Sherlock now stood beside her, studying the body. "How is our case going?"

Furrowing her eyebrows, Molly looked up at him. "Ah—our case?" Sherlock simply looked at her as if this were an obvious fact. "So soon after Sherrinford? And your parents?"

"I need to keep my mind preoccupied after everything; I mustn't lose my touch after all," he explained. "Oh! And my parents are expecting us for dinner; we'll be going someplace upscale I assume as it is Mycroft's treat."

Molly's mind was racing, unable to keep up with all that had been thrown at her in the span of two minutes. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy working cases with Sherlock, but that she had been worried about him as of late. Neither of them were quite used to their change in relationship status, and his emotional and psychological wounds were only just beginning to heal. They had only been finding their footing for two weeks, and he wanted her to meet his parents tonight!? "Sherlock," she began, but he was still rambling.

"…and I was hoping we could—"

"Sherlock!" Molly's own jaw couldn't help but drop in the slightest, as it was very rare for her to raise her voice at him. "I'm sorry, I just—this is all a bit much right now." Sherlock looked as if he were a puppy who had been kicked.

It took a moment, but he finally spoke, though his voice was much softer, and less confident than before. "Do you mean to say this case is too much, or the bit about meeting my parents?" Molly opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock added on one last thing. "Or is this,"—he took a breath—"about us?" He noticed a flicker of something in her eyes.

She avoided his gaze, unable to face him as she said, "I don't know." Her heart felt heavy. "Maybe." In all honesty, she wasn't sure what the issue was, and she told him as much. "I'm not sure."

"Okay…" Sherlock remarked, looking around awkwardly. "We're not breaking up…are we?" The worry he felt was written plainly on his face.

"N—no, of course not," Molly assured him.

"And we're still working the case together?" he asked out of curiosity.

"Yes, and I do need to finish my autopsy if I'm going to be of any help," Molly pointed out.

Taking a cold, clinical tone, Sherlock replied, "Right, well, carry on, then."

Sherlock arrived at Mycroft's just barely in time before they were to leave for the restaurant, along with his parents. He was disappointed that Molly wouldn't be joining them tonight. Even worse, he was going to have to explain why she wasn't there. Peering his head around the corner, into the sitting room, he saw his parents sitting on the sofa whilst Mycroft remained upright. Taking a deep breath, he entered the room.

"Sherlock, dear, there you are!" Mrs. Holmes said sweetly, standing up to give her son a hug.

"Yes, and I am sorry, but I'm afraid Molly isn't going to be able to make it. She's come down with something," he lied.

"What do you mean?" Mr. Holmes asked. "She's upstairs."

Sherlock scrunched up his face in bafflement. "She's—?" He heard the soft tap of Molly's flats hit the stairway. Looking up, he couldn't help but stare. Molly was there, dressed in a vintage style cotton dress. It was a deep shade of purple with a sweetheart neckline, and puffed short sleeves. There were decorative buttons—five of them—going down the middle of the bodice. Her hair cascaded over her left shoulder, and had been styled in loose 1920s waves.

"Ready to go?" Molly asked once she finished her descent into the sitting room, and looping her arm through Sherlock's. They walked a few paces behind everyone else in order to speak without an audience.

Sherlock was confused to say the least. "Molly?" he whispered. "Not that I'm not happy you're here, but I thought you weren't coming. Remember? The row we had?"

Molly, leaning closer to him replied softly, "I know, but I thought things over, and the important thing is that I'm sorry. I want to spend this time with you and your family. It's important to not only you, but me too. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that earlier."

He stopped just before exiting through the front door, unknowing that his family had stopped to watch them from the town car. "We'll talk tonight?" he asked, whispering in her ear. Molly smiled in response, fully aware of the eyes watching them. Sherlock hadn't gotten the memo until after he softly kissed her on the cheek, when his mum spoke up.

"Oh, you two are just darling!"

This was going to be a long night...

Author's Note: This is the most complex fic I've every written, so please bare with me. If you don't understand something, please don't hesitate to PM me with any questions. I have combed through these chapters several times over, rewritten them several times over, etc.