I make no apologies for this. I dreamt it and it was made manifest. Harmless crack fluff.

"I do not." Sherlock was affronted at the accusation. And slightly worried as it was not only true, but that John had picked up on it, meaning that he was being slightly more obvious than he had intended.

"Actually you do, always," John shook his head at his denial. "Every single time we come to the morgue, you always pause on this corner and flip up your collar."

Sherlock ignored the corners of his Belstaff collar poking his cheeks. "You are exaggerating."

"Of course," John scoffed as they continued along the hallowed halls of St. Barts. "And your sudden desire to preen has nothing to do with a certain pathologist who you've been eyeing ever since you came back."

It had everything to do with her and they both knew it. But only Sherlock knew how deep those newfound inclinations ran. Honestly, when a woman not only helps you commit suicide but also hides you for months and is your only link to your past, then of course you are going to gain some sort of feelings for her.

Even if said feelings were highly inconvenient. They came anyway. Not that he had to let John know that.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nonsense. It is merely ten degrees cooler down here than it is in the rest of the hospital and I have no wish to get sick."

John smirked. "All right."

The knowing smirk grated and Sherlock glared. "It happens to be true."

"Oh sure."

Sherlock knew that he could win this argument. John was a good partner but no one could out-stubborn Sherlock when he was feeling obstreperous.

It just so happened he wasn't in the mood to fight.

"Shut up."

John chuckled as they reached the morgue. He paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"Shall I just walk in or did you want to do your hair first?"

Sherlock wondered, yet again, why he'd decided to come back from the dead. It was much easier when no one questioned your motives. He pushed past him into the room and stopped dead, only idly aware of John doing the same.

His sweet, good tempered, perpetually cheerful pathologist was bent over her laptop crying like she'd just killed a kitten.

Something rather uncomfortable settled in his stomach at the sight of her so distraught.

Molly Hooper was bent double over her computer, her shoulders shaking with subdued sobs.

"Molly?" Sherlock's voice was hoarse. "Molly what's wrong?"

Molly looked up and, on seeing the two of them, quickly tried to dry her tears. But it was like stopping a dam. No sooner had she swiped at her face than more tears were falling down her cheeks.

"Sorry," she shuddered. "I'll be all r-r-right in a minute. Let me get you a c-c-coffee" She stood up and headed for the kitchen but Sherlock was having none of it.

He swept in front of her and put his hands on her arms. "Molly?"

There was something in his soft timbre that broke her and she burst into tears again. Without hesitation Sherlock pulled her into his arms.

"I'm sorry, it's stupid. But he killed him!"

Sherlock stilled. "What?"

"He killed him and there was no need and he always does it, always always, and it's not fair. He's dead."

Sherlock nodded towards the laptop and John hurried over. Sherlock made shushing noises and stroked the back of her head.

"Who's dead Molly?"

"He killed him, stupid way to die." Molly trembled.

John had opened the laptop and suddenly froze.

Without another word he rushed over to the two of them and pushed Sherlock out of the way. He wrapped his arms around Molly.

"I know, Molls, I know."

"Why does he do it?"

"He's evil, Molly. Pure evil."

Sherlock frowned and headed towards the open laptop.

"He makes me care and then he just-"

"I know." John soothed. "I hate him too."

Sherlock stared down at the running program in confusion.

What the hell was this?

"First Angel then Tara and Wash and now Coulson?" Molly cried harder. "It's not fair!"

"There, there," John patted her back.

Sherlock looked between the program and the silently sobbing brunette.

"Right," Sherlock shut the laptop. "That's it, we're going to see Mycroft."

John stilled. "Uh why?"

"I have a favour to call in."

No one made his pathologist cry. Not if he could help it. His brother ran the British government and no one could escape that. Least of all some ghastly American.

What kind of a name was Joss Whedon anyway?