Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC or "Sherlock" and I'm definitely not Steven Moffat. Not Mark Gatiss either, which would be more fun. Just playing with their toys.

Explanation: I've been following "Sherlock" here and there since it began, but series 3 found my shipper button and began pressing it repeatedly. This particular story is set between "The Blind Banker" and "The Great Game" and is full of future Sherlolly hints.

Apologies: Sorry, fans of my Harry Potter fanfic, "The Perils of Innocence". You can blame this story in part for how long it took me to get Chapter 27 finished.

Expectations: Five (short) chapters of this are done. I think it will eventually run 7-10 (short) chapters. I will update what I have every week, but once I hit Chapter 6 there may be a longer gap between updates. It's all about the work schedule.

The usual scents of death and sterilizing chemicals permeated the morgue as they always did. This time they hid the presence of the flowers until Molly re-entered the room in street clothes and was halfway across the lab to her desk to check messages one last time.

She was startled enough that she spoke aloud in the empty room. "Lilies? Really?"

She plucked the card from the plastic clip that had been thrust into the pot. The neat script of an anonymous florist read, Something to brighten your day! Hope you like them —Sherlock

Molly frowned at the note, which didn't sound at all like anything Sherlock might have dictated to the florist. But it was just possible he'd simply said, "Write something cheerful, would you?" and the florist had complied.

At any rate, it was a moot point. Lilies might be a teasing comment on her job, but they were poisonous to cats and she would not risk Toby. She'd take them to the main nurses' station or reception and let them enjoy a bit of colour and freshness. She tossed the card onto her desk and picked up the pot. It was heavier than she expected and she handled it carefully as she left the morgue.

Sherlock stood up from where he had been kneeling next to the body and looked at Lestrade. The detective inspector looked pale and it was no trouble to deduce why.

It wasn't every day that one saw one's own potential death in a blurred mirror.

The victim was another D.I. in Scotland Yard, an Inspector Finnegan, and someone Lestrade had worked with before. Even more unsettling was the fact that Finnegan was dead because someone had booby-trapped his house. The stairs leading to the cellar had been cleverly sawn and supported at angles to make it look like the full staircase was there in the light from the kitchen. Finnegan had gone charging down, undoubtedly to fetch coal against the unexpected cold snap in March, found half a staircase instead of a full one, and fallen onto a pallet with a number of sharp spikes driven through it. It was clear that Finnegan had tried to free himself before bleeding to death.

Sherlock was uneasy, and could not pinpoint why. It was more than dealing with Lestrade's suppressed mourning for an acquaintance. There was something about Finnegan, something he needed to sort. It was connected and he needed to find a place where he could delve into his mind palace and find the threads.

His mobile buzzed, notifying him of a text. He pulled it out and glanced at the sender, ready to delete on sight.

It was Molly Hooper. This was potentially helpful – perhaps he could get Lestrade to send Finnegan's body to Bart's and be able to sort out what was bothering him there. Molly's presence in the morgue almost guaranteed him some space in which to think. She of all people knew best when to leave him alone.

Just wanted to thank you for the flowers. –Molly

Sherlock looked at the message and frowned in complete bafflement for a moment. Flowers? What on earth is she on about?

The receptionists were agog over the flowers. Molly felt quite pleased with herself for finding so elegant a solution. And the receptionists, not knowing her very well, were less likely than the nurses to take the mickey out of her for getting flowers from her hanger-on down in the lab.

She frowned as she headed for the main entrance. One would think a man as bloody clever as Sherlock would remember that lilies were poisonous to cats and send something that she could take home and display for Mrs Edison upstairs. Roses or an African violet or even some fresh mint if he wanted to be funny about Toby's addiction to catnip.

And there was still the question of why he would send flowers in the first place. If they were meant to thank her for allowing him access to the MacGillivray corpse before cremation so he could test the effect of the angle of a blow in how ribs broke, that had been weeks ago. There had been no opportunity since then to supply him with any other requests from his running list.

She paused in the waiting area to send a text thanking him, just to annoy him with her promptness. Her grandmother would turn in her grave at the idea of a thank-you not written on monogrammed stationery, but if one wanted to ensure that Sherlock saw a thing, one texted.

She hit "send" and tucked her phone back in the pocket of her coat. Moving toward the exit, she put on her gloves and scarf against the unseasonable cold. Her phone beeped to signal an incoming text and she pulled it back out to read the message.

I didn't send flowers –SH

Molly paused at that, suddenly uneasy. Why would anyone send her flowers in Sherlock's name?

The sudden explosion behind her threw her into the wall, striking her head and sending her into unconsciousness.

Author's Note: Thank you very much for reading! Constructive criticism and Brit-picking are welcome. Diatribes against my ship or other flames are not.