When Molly Hooper woke up she found she was thinking very fondly of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

I guess I should have seen it coming, she thought, as she sliced into Mr. Alcott's abdomen. She was, after all, notoriously famous among her girlfriends as The Lovebird. She laughed quietly to herself as she weighed Mr. Alcott's liver.

Oh, of course-alcoholic.

She had been harboring a crush on Greg ever since John and Mary's engagement, but for a while she had been so blinded by her joy at finding a successful relationship and her infatuation with Tom.

Tom, she thought bitterly as she penned "alcohol poisoning" in her usually pretty cursive next to the black line after "cause of death". She was fairly certain she was the only medical professional in the world that had nice handwriting. Then again, she dealt with the dead, and thus figured she could take her time. The thought of her ex-fiance, however, drove all thoughts of neat cursive from her mind and she looked with dim dismay at the true doctor's scrawl she had allowed herself to slip into.

The breakup was still fresh in her heart; it still brought her unpleasantly out of reality to think back on his betrayal, in the form of a younger-and blonder-new woman.

She had kicked him right out, of course-no second chances there-but she still couldn't shake the feeling of humiliation and shame and worthlessness and her loss of dignity-

"Molly!"

The mortician squeaked and almost dropped her clipboard onto poor Mr. Alcott's liver, whirling around to face Lestrade as he bounded into the morgue, grinning broadly. The sight of him chased away her bitter thoughts of Tom, and she was doused in a sense of calm and tranquility as he leaned smoothly against the table, unfazed by the rather large and smelly organ sitting in a metal bin not six inches from his elbow.

"Why do all my friends look so happy to be in a room full of frozen dead people?" she joked in response to his greeting, carefully setting the clipboard on a space cleared of human innards.

"Ah, because we don't come to see the stiffs, we come to see you." he smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling fondly.

"Unless you're Sherlock," she corrected, a smile playing on her lips, and he laughed in that warm raspy tenor.

"He tends to be the exception to the rules," he agreed, still laughing.

John Watson then strode into the morgue, smiling briefly at the pair of them and nodding his head curtly in greeting.

"The exception to every rule," Molly continued slyly, winking at Lestrade and inclining her head towards John, which started a new fit of giggles between them.

"Um, Molly?" John asked, obviously slightly uncomfortable and suspicious of what had them giggling like schoolchildren.

"Yes?" she answered, fighting to keep a straight face-straight face to John, ha!-even as Lestrade was waggling his eyebrows ridiculously at her behind John as she answered his question-something about an human eye for Sherlock-and as a result hit him hard on the arm when John had left.

"Oh, come on, Molly, let me have my fun. I mean, for Christ's sake, the bloody Queen will come out before he does." Lestrade shook his head in disbelief at John's denial.

Realizing dimly she was probably supposed to be doing something with Mr. Alcott's liver, she asked: "So, Greg, aren't you supposed to be...oh, I don't know, inspecting dead people?"

"I could ask the same of you, you know," he replied with mock-seriousness, nodding at the abandoned liver.

She laughed. "I usually get what you find!"

Greg raised his eyebrows, opening his mouth in slight surprise at the cheeriness of her tone.

Molly's eyes widened and she blushed, her hand flying up to her mouth. "Oh, god-sorry," she apologized, as Greg grinned at her.

"Well, I suppose I'll let you get to it-ah, if you find one with a bullet in its brain it's probably from me." he winked to accompany his morbid response as he shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled backwards.

"Charming," she giggled.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment, Molly fingering her hair and Lestrade clearing his throat and looking with interest at the various sights of the morgue.

"Alright..." Greg said, as Molly said "well, bye!" and they both laughed again at the awkwardness.

"Yeah," he said, and started to leave.

"Wait, Greg?" she called, and he spun around.

"Yes?"

"The bullet or the body?"

"What?"

Molly looked down at her shoes, and back at Mr. Alcott's liver before explaining.

"Which one's from you, the bullet in the brain or the body itself?"

Greg paused by the door.

"Um, how about dinner?"

Molly quirked an eyebrow. "Dinner?"

"Yeah, like, from me. To you."

"Would you be there with me?"

Greg laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck with his hand. "Uh, yeah, that's the idea."

Molly smiled, feeling a small thrill go down her spine.

Not too shabby for The Lovebird.

"Where?" she asked, clutching her clipboard to her chest.

"Anywhere," he answered immediately, a bit breathlessly, eyes widening as he gazed at Molly. His date. He seemed to change his mind, however, as he looked uneasily around the morgue. "Not here, though."

She laughed, nodding at Mr. Alcott's body.

"Why not?" she asked, with mock disappointment. "I thought you liked it here!"

He smiled. "Like I said, I don't come to see the stiffs, I come to see you."