Need corpse, male, 30-35, natural causes. ETA 30 minutes SH

sorry sick. Dr. Hughes will help you xMx

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Dr. Molly Hooper was never ill. She was obviously recovering from a late night at the pub with her brother, recently returned from the States.

Overindulged, Dr. Hooper? Take two paracetamol, drink some tea, please shower, and meet me in an hour. SH

Not that it's any of your business, Mr. Holmes, but Bradley came back sick & now I have it too. Coughing, nausea, fever. Now if you don't mind, I'm going back to sleep. xMx

He started a scathing reply but then stopped. Wait, hadn't Bradley Hooper gone to Albuquerque for business? A quick jaunt into his mind palace, and then Sherlock ran out the door to 221B, dialing up the familiar number as he hailed a taxi.

"I need your help. It's an emergency. Yes, John, a real one. Molly Hooper's life depends on it. I'll be there in 10 minutes to pick you up."

"Molly? Molly, I need you to wake up, luv. It's John."

Dr. Hooper opened her eyes, still groggy from the cold and flu medicine she'd taken a few hours ago, "Go away, just want to sleep," she pulled the covers back over her head.

Then she sat back up, "Wait, what are - " she fell back against the bed, dizzy, " - what are you doing here? Sherlock Holmes, where are you?"

"I told him to wait outside while I examine you. He's in the hall, I'm sure."

"Examine me? John, it's just the flu."

"Still, better to be safe than sorry. Open your mouth? Say ah. Mmhmm." John continued to make affirmative noises, checking her lungs and lymph nodes. "Yea, just as I thought. You can lay back again, Molly. Sherlock," he called out, softly.

Sherlock Holmes rushed into her room before John could even finish his name, "It's as I suspected, isn't it? Bubonic plague. Her brother should have been quarantined as soon as he stepped off the aeroplane. We must get her to the hospital immedi -"

"Sssh. Calm down," John said, putting his arms up to placate the thunder cloud of a Consulting Detective in her bedroom, "It's as she says, just the flu."

"John, more than 60 cases of Yersinia pestis have been reported in the United States in the past decade, and most of those in New Mexico, where Mr. Hooper attended his conference. People have died, and I won't let one of them be My Pathologist. We have to leave now," before John could stop him, Sherlock leant over, picking Molly up in his arms and made for the door. Thankfully, John stood between him and the exit, but it was Molly who spoke next.

"Sherlock, stop. John, thank you for coming out. Go home, disinfect, then kiss Mary and Izzy for me. I'll see you later, yeah?"

"You sure?" She nodded, "Okay. Remember, bed rest. If you need me, call. Sherlock, behave," and then he was out the door.

"You can take me back to my bed now, Sherlock. I promise I'll be okay," he hesitated, "You don't think I know what plague looks like? I'm a pathologist. I'm fine, please."

He finally placed her back on the bed and sat next to her, "You're never sick, I was… worried."

"It was just a strain of influenza I hadn't been exposed to before, that's all. I'll be fine," she bit her lip, then gathered courage to ask, "but why were you worried?"

This time it was Sherlock's turn to look sheepish, "I care a lot about you Molly. I can't imagine life without you. I don't want to try."

Molly put him out of his misery and grasped his hand, "Are you on a case, is that why you needed a body?"

"No, it was just an excuse - ehm, that is, experiment. Very important," she chuckled.

"Well why don't you make some tea and then tell me about the last case you were on. You never explained how you figured it out, just tore out of the lab."

Thirty minutes later, having already finished her tea, made perfect without any prompting by Sherlock, Molly was drifting off to the sound of his voice while he lazily rubbed his thumb over the palm of her hand.

Two Days Later

"Are you sure this isn't the plague?" Sherlock drowsily called from Molly's bed before she could leave the room to make tea. She walked back over to kiss him on the forehead.

"You'll be fine, you baby," she gently ran her hands through his curls, covertly checking his fever. Thankfully, it had lowered a bit from the paracetamol, but it was still there.

"Have I told you I love you? Intensely," she faltered. He hadn't yet; they'd spent the last few days snuggling and exchanging affections, but neither had spoken the words. She figured it'd wait until they were both recovered, but it seems all it took was the slight delirium of illness.

By the time she looked back up to answer, he was asleep. She tucked him in, then kissed him chastely on the mouth. He smiled in his sleep.