HI.

So, I got reviews. I got a lot of reviews. (THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU YOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY GAH) (cough.) Thanks. *smile* And a lot of reviews wanted to know what happened. And so did I. So... I tried to think of what happened. And then I was like, ;_; "WHAT IF IT DOESN'T WORK," and then I decided to post this anyways. A little prologue to a sequel, if you will. Because it's Sherlock, and there's no way anything goes on without a hitch.

And so, here we are! Part TWO of "What Fresh Hell," and it will get interesting in the next chapter, I PROMISE. ;_;

Tell me if it sucks!

LTT,

GS

Disclaimer: The moff. The BBC. The ACD. And the Not Me. ;_;

xx

The beeping, why was there beeping—

Molly groaned and smacked at her clock blindly, sliding open one bleary eye. Ungodly-o-clock. Brilliant.

She rolled out and up, stumbling into the bathroom. God, what did she have to drink last night? Well. Whatever it was, it'd worked wonders on her eyesight. Since when were there… two water faucets…?

Focus, Molly. Wake up. Work. Right? Then she could come back home, and crash, and sleep for the next forty years and she'd be fine. Urgh. Coffee first. Thinking later.

It took her a little over ten minutes to trail out of her flat, hair decent, clothes on, and headache—well. Headache still bloody awful.

Plus side: the day was routine. Nothing to distract her, nothing to throw her off or make her actually have to function out of automatic parameters. For example: "Dennis O'Leary, forty six, heart and kidney failure."

"At the same time?" Blank stare. "Never mind, doesn't matter." Except for to one person. One person she would not think of, thank you very much. Or she'd have her own heart failure. She bit at her lips so that the attendant couldn't see the manic smile forming. Cause of death: Sherlock Holmes. Ooh, tingles. No. No. Not tingles. Nothing. Sherlock who? She knew no Sherlock. That wasn't even a real name. That's something you name the family goldfish.

Moving on, then.

Eight hours later, and she was walking down the same hallway, pushing a body on a trolley. The girl was quite pretty. Long lashes. Blue bow lips. At least she wasn't one of the accident vict—

"Molly?"

"Hm? Sorry?" The man talking to her was quite fit, to be honest. Honey brown hair, hazel eyes. Crinkly eyes. Like he smiled a lot. Sigh. How normal. If only she were interested. Bet he likes cats.

He was looking at her patiently, eyebrows raised, as if he were waiting for some kind of response from her. What was she supposed to say? It hadn't been a yes or no question, had it?

"I'm… sorry, I think I spaced out there for a minute, want to go again?" She smiled at him, and he smiled back. See? Ha! She could be normal, too. Take that, you fickle metaphorical organ.

"A call for you, down at the front desk." Oh, yep. She was right. See? All… cutesy-crinkly. And twinkly. Good lord, she was looking at a Harlequin novel.

"Great. Thanks. Just let me wheel Jody here down under." She didn't think it was her imagination that he stood there for a moment. Huh. Well. If ever her obsessions ever realigned with common sense, she knew where to knock.

Roll. Slam. Bang. Lock. Waltz.

Back up on the living level, Molly walked over to the desk. The on-duty nurse looked plenty irritated, manicured hand in a death grip around the phone on her ear.

"Er… was there a message for me… Charlotte?" Ooh, that was very nice. The woman had barely seen her eyes flick down to the nametag. Names. Why couldn't they all be the same? Or match the person's hair color? They were too difficult to remember. John, Jody, Charlotte. All so ridiculously similar.

Molly smiled at Charlotte. Charlotte stared for a moment, tight-lipped, before handing her another phone and pressing the answer phone's button.

Beep. "Hello, this is a message for Molly Hooper, most probably down at the morgue." Pause. "Molly. About our… 'date.'" Oh, lord. Even in a message he managed to stick quotation marks around the word. She could feel her face changing color. Brilliant. Yes, that's me—the maroon morgue attendant. Body-wheeler by day, stop sign by night.

"I don't think I'll be able to make it."

Maroon? Sorry, I meant the color of a volcano with indigestion. She could feel it, feel the color leave the rest of her body and navigate its way to her head. By any god who felt like listening in, when she got her hands on that man, he would be so assuredly—

"On time. I don't think I'll be able to make it on time."

And then all the color left, along with the adrenaline, and she pressed her face to her palm, elbow on the desk, to keep from sliding to the ground and dying. Dying hard. And, possibly, in an awkward fetal position.

Dammit, he knew it, he knew what he was doing to her, the ass. The tosser! The… The every bloody barmy swearword she could think of and then all the ones in every other language of the world. Twice.

"Sorry," he continued, dulcet tones still sounding as bored as a murderer with an axe. A thud came from the phone, and what sounded suspiciously like someone screaming. Molly's eyes flew open again. Did this make her a witness to… No. Nope. No point in dwelling on it. "I did mean to be there. I'll be on my way as soon as—" Another thud, this one making her breath catch as she heard all of his rush out of his body. This was… probably not good. "We're done here," he still continued, voice strained. "JOHN. GRAB THE HAMMER. NO, THE HAMMER—" And then it cut off.

Seriously?

"Um… Charlotte?"

"Yes?" came the sharp and horrifyingly nasal reply.

"Did you listen to this?"

"It's against policy to listen after the name," she said smugly. A yes, then.

"Right. Thanks." Molly was shaking, a little bit. She waited until the morgue, though, before the laughter started. Shaky, and tense, and completely mad.

She had a date.

A date.

With Sherlock. Bloody. Holmes.

Who might just be dead before that happened.

Hell.

Review, please. :( And tell me if I lost it. Because, you know, ending it works. Just with an averted date and, I dunno, amnesia, or something.

R&R

PLEASE

*mad grin*

GS