Chapter 3:

The first person Molly encountered when she came back to St. Bart's was Ryan Williams. He glared at her from sleep-deprived eyes until he saw the two bags she carried and his gaze softened into hopefullness.

"That bad?" she asked?

"You know it. I swear the only thing stopping me from making him a permanent resident of the morgue was the promise of tea."

Molly handed him the branded bag of promised teas. From the second bag she pulled out a mug, saying, "Consider it 'combat pay.'"

"'Tea is my Kryptonite'..." He laughed at seeing his own words emblazoned on a mug. "Yes, yes it is. Get on to the lab, now, if you're brave enough. He's been making quite a mess in there." He rubbed his tired eyes. "I'm going to go home and pass out."

Molly wasn't she she wanted to know how big the mess was, but she'd have to face it eventually. Putting it off would likely only make it worse.

What she found was worse than she'd hoped for, but less than she'd feared. Over all it was what she'd come to consider as "Typical Sherlock Mess", although she never said that aloud. Except perhaps once to John, who laughed in agreement, and said that she should consider herself lucky that she didn't have to share an icebox with him. "Ugh. I'm not sure I want to know," she'd said and John had replied with, "You don't. You really don't."

The mess though was devoid of people. No telling where he'd gone off to or even if he'd come back, or if he'd be towing his blogger-doctor or police investigator along. She paused at that, thinking to herself , Does that make me his pathologist then? Heh. Oh dear God what is that on the floor?.

She donned a lab coat and gloves, and grabbed some rags before approaching the brown liquid. She sopped it up carefully and stowed the soiled cloths in thick hazmat bags - two bags just to be safe. Hopefully he'd be back before she disposed of it, but otherwise the staff down in the hazmat rooms could address whatever it was. Lab safety was one thing she did not compromise on.

After that was handled, she went to the experiments to study them for a moment. She didn't touch anything immediately; she evaluated it first to gauge what shouldn't be touched, what should be cleaned up, and what could possibly need her assistance.

Most of them were, unfortunately, beyond her experience. If she'd seen the entire procedure she'd have figured it out from observation, or from hearing him rattle on about it. Times like this though, when she came to them halfway through the test she had a harder time with them. Still, a few tests on the side were ones she'd worked with before and those she could complete for him, adding her own carefully printed notes to his scribbles.

Finally by late morning she was finished with what she called "Sherlock Damage Control" and her lab was somewhat back in order. She considering popping up to the lounge to get coffee, when coffee when she heard the lab doors crash open.

"Good God, that moron touched something!" He was back, and in a mood already. She flinched a bit, even knowing that it probably was not going to be directed at her. Now she knew why Ryan was so eager to leave. "I swear if he ruined... Molly!"

Sherlock's angry tone immediately switched to one of elation and pleasure, his eyes snapping to where she stood in the back. "How was New York?"

John followed in behind Sherlock and blinked for a moment or two, looking at his friend. Molly too, was a bit surprised at the sudden change of temper and the bit of small talk. "It was fine. I brought back some souvenirs for both of you and Mrs. Hud-"

"It can wait. Corpse in slot A-7. Since the experiments are thankfully not ruined by incompetent hands, I can see if the poison used on the latest victim is the same as with the others."

And... back to Normal-Sherlock, she said to herself, although not unkindly. She was use to his abruptness during cases, and even before her vacation he'd been a bit less caustic than before. On top of that she realized that, in his own roundabout way, he'd complimented her laboratory skills. Suggesting that her interactions with his work did not ruin it, was the equivalent of high praise from anyone else really. She realized that she preferred that over his previous attempts at flattery to get what he wanted. Molly knew it hadn't been false flattery - her hair for example really did look better parted to the side - but backwards compliments about her mind meant more to her than forced praises of her face or hair.

"Of course! Give me about ten minutes," she said cheerfully, and slipped out the door. She hummed to herself a bit as she worked in the cool morgue, arranging the paperwork for the unlucky soul.

She was just wheeling the body out when she heard Sherlock's voice close to her ear, almost a whisper of, "And Molly..." She resisted her body's impulse to shiver, but could feel her pulse jump as his breath brushed the nape of her neck. If she leaned back, she knew his lips would brush her skin, he was that close. She knew without looking that John hadn't yet followed him in. "Don't disappear like that again."

"I'll warn you next time," she replied, almost a whisper. She wasn't sure if this was his way of saying that he'd worried when he couldn't find her, or if he had just been frustrated when he couldn't get to the lab when he'd wanted. Knowing him, perhaps a little of both.

He nodded and turned to the corpse, as John was walking in. The quiet look left his face and turned bright, almost exuberant. "Ah-ha! Yes! Thought you could outwit me but no, again I have triumphed!"

Sherlock went on, going over everything that proved his theories, chattering at John. Molly smiled to herself and quietly made notes to add to the autopsy report. In a span of less than an hour he'd praised her and suggested that he could worry about her well being. She felt warm, as if honey fresh from the hive was bubbling over inside her.

The book was beautiful in Molly's hands. The cover jacket was a warm light brown and along the spine glittered an embossed bee and honeycomb - the publisher's trademark. The artist had improvised on his appearance a bit, adding a bit of short unruly curl that glinted like dark warm honey. Molly had approved it instantly, and promised herself that she'd be sure to include it in the text for the sequel.

That was perhaps the first inkling she'd had of her success. Along with the copy of the book, Frank had included a pre-contract, outlining some of the points they wanted to include for future books. She wouldn't have to travel to NY again, not yet at least, although he did prefer having final contract negotiations in person.

The money that was already appearing in her second bank account was, of course the second sign of her success. It wasn't a fortune, this being her first book, but it was indeed enough that she could seriously reconsider her financial plans. She might not pay off her debts overnight, but their end was coming closer into sight.

The third sign of her success came as a bit of a surprise.

She'd taken the tube downtown that morning, planning on a bit of shopping. Or as she called it in her own mind, "Celebrating what Benjamin Night has brought me". She'd already picked out a couple of new outfits that flattered her more than her work-clothes ever did, and was looking at the selections of a fancy cafe when she spotted John out of the corner of her eye.

Oh, he looks... I'm not sure... upset? Happy? Both? she thought to herself. "John?" she asked, "Is everything alright?"

John looked up and his face relaxed, but only a little. "Hey, Mols." He sighed and shook his head but then laughed a little.. "Not sure really. I'm not sure if I want to strangle her or kiss her. Probably both, but I'm not sure in which order."

"What? Who?" Molly had seen him go through quite a few relationships, most of which usually ended soon after meeting his flatmate. "It must be serious."

"Yes, but not like that." He ran a hand through his hair and said, "He's thinking of putting bees on the roof."

Molly blinked at the change of topic. "Bees? Sherlock? What did Mrs. Hudson say?"

"Yes bees! She managed to convince him not to put them in the house. Some crazy theory the bloody idiot has. That's why I want to strangle her - not Mrs. Hudson though, but ... Her"

Molly paled a bit, having a sinking feeling of just what theory Sherlock was trying to test. John wasn't looking at her though; his eyes were fixed on a storefront across the street, so he didn't see the expression of dread on her face.

"Bees or not though, I'll have to kiss her too." He laughed again and this time spun around, happy. "It's been a week since his last case and he's been silent. An entire week! No yelling at crap telly, no shooting at the wall, or skewering pigs, just the sound of pages turning."

She followed his gaze then, and saw the bookstore he was looking at, a familiar honey-brown novel lining the front of the storefront.

"I don't know who this M.H. Lee is, but, apparently her Sweet Death rated an 8!"

Molly was glad John's gaze was still fixed on the bookstore, for she wasn't sure she'd be able to explain the sudden fierce blush that filled her face. But even after the redness had faded from her face, the flutter of pride, like bees humming, still filled her heart.

She started plotting then, just what would happen to the London Detective next and smiled at the thought of the challenge.