Molly Hooper huffed as she fumbled with her keys, struggling to fit the key in the lock. Her eyes were bloodshot and gritty, her legs numb from overuse, and she swore if she saw another piece of paperwork in the next five days she'd move to Timbuktu.

It wasn't often that she admitted to hating her job. Rather, she enjoyed being a pathologist immensely. But she'd been called in three hours into her two-day weekend after a horrific double-decker accident sent numerous bodies to several hospitals throughout London, St. Bart's included. Three days of identifying remains and getting less than five hours rest by kipping on the cot in Mike Stamford's office were enough to give her a moment's regret for choosing this line of work.

Finally, the key slid home and Molly stumbled blindly into her welcoming flat. A faint light shone in from the far side of the flat, the setting sun illuminating a path through the small apartment to her bedroom, her large, queen-sized bed acting like a siren's call. Unfortunately, Molly thought, that's a bit of a hike. In three steps, she collapsed onto her plushy couch, sinking into the cushions and half-asleep in seconds.

Knock knock.

The sudden noise startled Molly awake. She swung her head up and around in surprise. A strange man stood in her open doorway and belatedly, Molly realized she'd never shut the door behind her.

'Sorry, didn't mean to startle ya,' the American accent was obvious and his quiet, yet confident voice broke through the lingering sleepiness in Molly's mind. 'Your door was open and I was passing by on the stairs, figured either you'd forgotten to close it or you're a pretty friendly neighbor.'

Molly frowned. She knew most everyone around, at least by facial recognition. And she was sure she'd remember someone as dashing as the man in the doorway. Almost as tall as Sherlock, but with a more athletic build. His clothes were wrinkled from a day's work, but near impeccable nonetheless. A day's growth shadowed his square jaw and light brown hair brushed his forehead and the collar of his tan jacket. He hugged a shiny, black motorcycle helmet to his side. Office worker from his slacks, but doesn't hold a high position, otherwise he would never risk getting his clothes spoiled from a motorcycle ride through London. Good grief, I'm becoming like Sherlock. What would he say about a strange man in my flat? He probably wouldn't care, unless it had to do with Moriarty. At the remembrance of that name, Molly stiffened. It was possible this guy was employed by the Consulting Criminal.

'Who are you?' she growled, half from sleep, half from fear.

'Justin Lane, architect. I moved in upstairs a couple days ago,' he replied.

Molly closed her eyes and struggled to remember the conversation she'd had with her landlady, Mrs. Powell last week. The old woman had been trying to rent the upper flat from more than a month and a young American businessman had finally signed a lease. Apparently, said American had moved in while Molly was elbows-deep in the morgue.

Molly groaned and sat up. 'Molly Hooper. Pathologist and occasional airhead.' She winced in self-depreciation.

'Ah, I don't believe that,' he chuckled. Molly braced herself for the morgue jokes as he continued, 'You don't seem like the ditzy type. Looks more like you've gotten home from a long day and just collapsed. I have those kind of days.' Molly blinked in surprise before a smile broke through her tired face.

She giggled and nodded, 'Something like that. Actually an impromptu 3-day shift. I had about five hours of sleep since Monday.'

Justin grimaced in sympathy. 'In that case, I shall tread upon your good graces another day.' He gave an exaggerated bow and reached to close the door. 'It was nice to meet you. Just do me a favor and lock up behind me.' With that he winked and shut the door. Molly blushed and felt something flutter in her stomach.

After she had slid the deadbolt and chain in place, she made her way to her bedroom, thoughts of her mysterious new neighbor filling her mind in the few minutes before sleep claimed her for the next 12 hours.

'Sherlock!'

Rolling his eyes, the petulant Consulting Detective shuffled into the kitchen from his bedroom, white sheet slung around his body like a full-length toga. 'Yes, John?'

Doctor John Watson was many things, but a man with a weak stomach was not one of them. However, five years of living with Sherlock Holmes and today was the breaking point. The fridge was a place of untold horror and the occasional delight, depending on if Mrs. Hudson had paid them a visit recently.

'Wh-what is that?' The green-gilled doctor pointed to a questionable container that occupied the entire top shelf of the fridge.

Sherlock huffed and strode past his former flatmate. 'Considering you are heading on a date with your wife in an hour, I'm sure you would rather be ignorant of Molly's latest donation to my experiment.' He grabbed his laptop and settled himself in his chair.

John swallowed the urge to gag and slammed the door closed on Sherlock's disgusting collection. 'I need to have a few words with Molly Hooper,' he muttered angrily.

'You will do no such thing,' Sherlock called from behind his laptop screen. John raised an eyebrow at the detective.

'Sherlock, there are certain things that are meant to stay inside the human body, not in your fridge for days on end.'

John moved to sit in his old chair, that Sherlock had moved back during the Mary debacle, and took a breath.

Sherlock slammed the top closed on his laptop and growled, 'If you insist on lecturing me about the experiments I conduct, you will be wasting valuable time and energy that could be put into something of importance; such as cleaning the flat, washing your hair, or fixing that damnable hole in the ozone layer.'

Dropping the laptop on the floor beside him, Sherlock wrapped the sheet tighter around himself and curled himself into a ball in his chair, petulantly pouting at his friend.

John rolled his eyes, used to Sherlock's outbursts and child-like manners. 'Nevertheless, there needs to be some boundaries.'

'You no longer live here, so you have no say,' Sherlock retorted.

Closing his eyes and counting to ten, John conceded mute defeat. There was no sense arguing with the man, he would only pout his way to victory. Much like a five-year-old.

I need to find him a babysitter.

'I am a grown man,' Sherlock snapped. 'I have no need for a babysitter.'

Accustomed to Sherlock's ability to infer what he was thinking, John shrugged. 'You're right, a babysitter is for children.'

Sherlock nodded and grunted in triumph. John smirked and stood to leave. When he was halfway to the door, he called over his shoulder.

'What you actually need is a keeper.'

With an indignant roar, Sherlock jumped up and chased the cackling Doctor down the stairs, losing his sheet in the process. John managed to close the outer door behind him and continued laughing as he made his way home.

Sherlock slammed the bolt into place, effectively locking out his addle-patted best friend. Naked, he stomped his way back upstairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's shouts of disapproval.

Life was so much calmer without having friends and their incessant need for sarcastic wit.

He flung open the refrigerator door, staring at the container that had set the good doctor off on a tangent. The experiment was finished, but he had waited to dispose of it until John had come by. He smirked, remembering the look of horror on John's face.

Well, time to start a new experiment. I wonder if Molly has any spare appendages in the morgue.

And with that, he went about dressing himself, going so far as to wear that purple shirt Molly apparently liked so much, if her dilated pupils and near-heavy breathing was anything to go by. If he caught her in a good mood, a little mild flirting might even get him a couple extra fingers.