The sound over the phone line crackled a little, like newspaper spreading.

"So it's happened, then."

It was a statement, but the woman answered the man anyway.

"Yes, sir. How would you like me to proceed?"

"Harry them a little. I have a feeling this is the one, so let's see how they perform. I know you're new, do you feel up the challenge?"

"Yes, sir."

"I need you to be my date to Janine's wedding."

Molly's bedroom door bounced against the stopper and flew back at the tall man filling the frame. He caught it, silhouetted by the daylight now pouring in from the street through the corridor window. A hand over her eyes to protect them and one to her chest to steady herself, she groaned.

"Sherlock, I'm sleeping, I-" she said hoarsely, rubbing the crust from her eyes.

"I know, the triple murder case in Elephant and Castle, don't worry, I haven't slept yet either," he said, practically bouncing as he flung open her blackout curtains. He disappeared for a few seconds and reappeared as if by magic with a cup of tea that he set on her book-crowded nightstand.

"Gaiman is not a coaster," Molly mumbled, grudgingly waking up. "Why do you need to go to Janine's wedding, and why do you need a date, and when is the wedding, and why are you asking me?"

Sherlock's head and hands had disappeared deep into her wardrobe, but even from behind she could tell her was already dressed for a formal event.

"You better be digging around in there for Narnia, Sherlock, because if you're about to pull out a frock you know that I can dispose of your body so that no one will ever find it."

"I need to go because she invited me, and despite the fact that our relationship was, uh-"

"Fictional."

"Only on my side, however, I do consider her a friend, and I would like to…"

"Support her?" She picked up her tea, wiping the moist ring off of the book with the heel of her hand.

"This?" The yellow dress she had worn to John and Mary's wedding popped into view.

"No, it's November, now get out of there."

"This?" A short, slinky black dress with thin straps and a heavy fringe at the bottom was sliding off of the hanger. Molly made a face over her cup.

"That was for a murder mystery fancy dress party, I played a 1920's dancer."

"So no?"

"No!"

"There will be dancing, I imagine that could be appropriate." He plunged back into the wardrobe, flipping through hanger after hanger of atrocious cardis and office trousers.

"Sherlock!" She threw a novel at his back. He finally stopped moving and looked back at her. Her long hair was tied up in a messy loose bun on the top of her head, deep shadows under eyes. "Answer me properly or I'm going back to sleep."

"The wedding is at 2pm, in Totteridge, and you're going because I need a date and I enjoy your company."

"And John wouldn't look fetching on your ar- 2pm? Sherlock, that's in two hours," she said, anxiety creeping into her voice. "And didn't Janine run you through the papers? What if there are press people there?"

Sherlock was silent a moment, standing upright with a hand on his chin evaluating her clothing as a whole.

"Nothing acceptable," he declared, and began tippity-tapping on his phone.

"And it's a 45 minute drive without traffic out of town, we'll never make it in time."

"Then you better get in the shower, hadn't you?" Sherlock replied with a wry smile.

With an inelegant and noisy groan, Molly pushed the covers off of her and crawled out of the lovely, warm bed and stumbled towards the bathroom.

"I hate you," she told him as she passed close enough to smell his aftershave.

"Are those my boxers?"

"You left them under my bed last time you crashed here while I was at work. I confiscated them for pajamas," she called back as she closed the door, relieved he couldn't see her blushing.

The sound of the running water covered the knock at her door, and when she emerged there was a complete outfit on her now-bed made, right down to shoes and undergarments. Everything fit.

"If this is turning into some crap controlling fifty shades business, there had better be some hot bdsm later to make this worth it, Mr Holmes," she mumbled under her breath as she struggled with the zip on the dress. Warm fingers lightly flicked hers off of the tiny metal pull and fastened the dress for her in one smooth motion.

"Your benefactor would certainly approve," he said dryly. Her face went scarlet.

"Where did you come from?"

"Corridor, obviously, the door wasn't shut."

"This dress makes me feel like I'm naked, Sherlock," Molly complained, though the mirror told her the ivy silk frock was modest enough for a church ceremony. She twisted her wet hair into a hasty knot and pinned it into place with a decoration. "Where did you get all this so quickly?"

"From a woman who owes me a lot of favours," he said with a frown, evaluating the discomfort of his friend and weighing it against the clock. No time. He could imagine the woman selecting this from an arsenal of clothing, assuming that she knew what he liked. Damn her.

"I can do the rest in the car," she said, checking her phone, "it will be close enough. I just need to-"

"Toby has food and water for the night in case we're late home," Sherlock said as he hurried her to the flat door.

For the first part of the journey, Molly fussed around packing a few items into a clutch from her usual shoulder bag, applying a conservative amount of lipstick, putting on her favourite necklace with a silver "M" pendant, and fastening the little buckles on the heel strap of her borrowed shoes. For the second, she watched Sherlock drive. Living in town as long as she had, being in the front seat of a car was a novel experience, and she was impressed by how easily he steered, shifted gears, his long legs working the pedals.

"I grew up in the country," he said, noticing her examination while checking his blind spot. "It was either drive or stay home."

"I always thought that you were a London boy."

"I escaped as soon as I could, though Mycroft was already there. It still doesn't feel quite big enough for the both of us."

"Did he get the dress for me tonight? He doesn't seem the warm fuzzy, borrow a cup of sugar or expensive evening wear sort."

Sherlock shifted in his seat, his fingers tightening slightly.

For the first part of the journey, Molly fussed around packing a few items into a clutch from her usual shoulder bag, applying a conservative amount of lipstick, and fastening the little buckles on the heel strap of her borrowed shoes. For the second, she watched Sherlock drive. Living in town as long as she had, being in the front seat of a car was a novel experience, and she was impressed by how easily he steered, shifted gears, his long legs working the pedals.

"I grew up in the country," he said, noticing her examination while checking his blind spot. "It was either drive or stay home."

"I always thought that you were a London boy."

"I escaped as soon as I could, though Mycroft was already there. It still doesn't feel quite big enough for the both of us."

"Did he get the dress for me tonight? He doesn't seem the warm fuzzy, borrow a cup of sugar or expensive evening wear sort?"

Sherlock shifted in his seat, his fingers tightening slightly.

They made it to the church just in time, sliding into the last pew moments before the back doors opened to reveal a progression of matching young women carrying expensive looking spheres of white roses. There was a formal pause, and a woman Molly vaguely remembered from John and Mary's wedding entered down the carpet, her dress a flattering copy of the Duchess of Cornwall's. Turning to face the front, Sherlock examined the groom and nodded to himself slightly. Yes, he'd do well for Janine.

"I'm so glad you could make it, Sherl," Janine greeted him with a kiss of the cheek that was closer to his mouth than her new husband, who next to her in the receiving line, really thought necessary. "Introduce me to your plus one?" Molly had never met such a flirtatious bride, put off by her seductive tone and flirtatious looks. She felt every inch her awkward self next to Sherlock's radiant ex.

"Doctor Molly Hooper," he responded, giving Molly a warm smile. Only slightly reassured, Molly shook hands with Janine, and thanked her for including her.

"I hope you're keeping our boy out of trouble, Dr Hooper," Janine said with a wink. She reached into a discreet pocket in her gown and pulled out a small white card with loopy gold handwriting. "You were late, so you missed the announcement that the reception has been moved. This is the new address."

People in line behind them were beginning to grow impatient trying to make small talk with random ushers and bridesmaids, so Sherlock took the card and they moved along towards the car park.

"We have five hours to kill now until the reception. Anything you would like to do?"

"I imagine napping is out of the question. Do you have any cases you could solve between now and then?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and scrolled through his email.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a nap?" he asked, eyes scanning the screen.

"In this dress? Out of the question."

"Here's one," Sherlock announced, "it's only a 4, should be quick."

"What's the case?" Molly watched the bridal party set up for photos in front of the church.

Sherlock opened her door for her without looking up from his phone, and she climbed in, careful of the borrowed garments as he shut it behind her. He got in and the engine revved, potentially feeding off of his excitement.

"A haunted inn, half hour drive."

Gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled up to a small but well-kept old manor house well off of the main roads. It was sheltered by ancient trees in full autumn colour, and a slightly overrun garden framed the stone structure. A very thin, balding man in a uniform polo shirt met them at the door. His shoes were worn, bits of sock peeking out over the toe, his trousers slightly frayed at the bottom. The uniform shirt had been washed so many times that the black had faded to a green, thread escaping from the embroidered logo.

"Mr Holmes, Madam, I'm so relieved that you're here."

"Tell me about this ghost, Mr Ward," Sherlock said, Molly noting that his voice was deeper and more sophisticated than it had been a few minutes earlier as they had argued the decay rate of human tissue exposed to necrotizing fasciitis in subjects already in an immunocompromised state. She smiled a little to herself, watching him transform into Sherlock Holmes, Detective.

"Ben, please," he shook their hands and ushered them into a long wood-paneled entrance hall, past a fancy dining room complete with a large chandelier, a comfortable library full of intriguing-looking old books, and a delicate ladies tea room full of hot house plants. At the end of the corridor, a woman in a housekeeper's uniform was using an extendable mop to dab at the high wall facing the grand staircase. It was just long enough to reach the words written there in what looked like blood.

"Die Molly?" Molly whispered, turning to Sherlock, who appeared already deep in thought.

"We don't know what it means," Ben said, waving at the letters, "but it won't come off. We don't have anyone named Molly here as staff or guests, but I've got a friend at the records office looking to see if there's some connection at the house to one. We've had some grey lady sightings over the years, but this is the first time we've had guests leave. We're barely booking for the summer now, with the online reviews warning people away."

"Do you have a ladder?" Asked Sherlock. "I'd like to get a sample of the paint used."

"I'll have to get it from the store shed, just a moment." He pulled out a ring of keys and hurried out, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. The housekeeper put down her mop and wiped her forehead.

"Are you alright?" The elderly woman was grey in the face, and Molly helped her to sit on the stairs. "What's your name."

"Emma, dear. I'm alright, it's just the emphysema." She shifted away. "You watch that dress, young lady, I'm all bleach."

"And you're still working? Shouldn't you be resting?"

Emma laughed.

"Have you got enough money in that fancy little purse to pension me off, Miss? I've been working here since I was a girl, and I don't see that changing until they put me in the ground."

The owner returned with a haggard-looking teenager in torn jeans carting a heavy metal ladder, and Sherlock scaled it, scraping flakes into a specimen container he'd retrieved from the car.

"You mentioned a bedroom as well, Mr Ward?"

"Ben, and yes, this way." He led them up the stairs to a grand chamber that smelled strongly of musk and jasmine.

"Sexy ghost," Molly muttered, making Sherlock give her a tiny smile in response. The room was dimly lit with red light, and as they passed through the door there was a chilly breeze that gave Molly goosebumps. Should have brought my jacket from the car. The narrow windows were glazed red, large drip marks making the panes rippled.

"It won't come off either?" Sherlock queried, taking a sample with his pocket knife.

"No, and the strangest thing is that besides being freezing, nothing works in here. We've checked the breakers, the outlets, the wiring, but it's like a dead zone. Even mobiles won't work properly."

Intrigued, Sherlock checked his and found it switched completely off.

"Molly?" Hers was the same.

"Your name is Molly?" the innkeeper asked, sniffing, a strange expression on his face.

"Coincidentally, yes," she said calmly.

"What could cause an isolated electrical event like this?" Sherlock frowned to himself. "Can you go check the panel again and let me know if this room shares a breaker with any of the other bedrooms?"

The innkeeper left, and Molly looked around the posh suite, rubbing at her bare arms.

"You would think a place like this would be making enough to support the staff and owners better, ghost or not. Everyone is looking a little shabby."

"They are, aren't they," murmured Sherlock, running his hands along the underside of the bed frame.

The floor boards beneath them suddenly began to crack and heave like they were on a buckling ship.

"Here," Sherlock cried, throwing out his arm to catch Molly before she fell from her high heels. He reeled her in and pulled her onto the bed with him. Dust flew up like a geyser from a hole in the centre of the floor, where Molly had been standing moments before, and there was a deafening crash.

For a moment, Molly lay in Sherlock's arms on the bed, eyes stinging and ears ringing.