So apparently I've been away from this site for three years. Hmm. I guess it's time to write something again! I'm going to apologize ahead of time if I can't update often; I work and am trying to turn my creativity into money currently. Please bear with me.

I discovered Sherlock recently thanks to the efforts of my sister and brother-in-law, and after watching all of the episodes, decided to try my hand at writing about it. Not sure when this story is set; I'm just going on my own tangent here. I'd place it somewhere between Sign of Three and His Last Vow, with alterations.

Fog rolled through the London streets, as thick as a wool blanket. It enveloped everything, muffling the din of the evening traffic and inhibiting vision. A fat pigeon strutted across a deserted back alley, confident that he wouldn't be disturbed.

"Hurry, Molly! We're losing him!"

The pigeon took to the air in a flurry of feathers just as a dark-skinned man in a colorful African dashiki and tribal mask blundered into the alley. He was closely followed by a tall, thin man with a mop of dark curls and pale blue eyes, the coattails of his Belstaff flying out behind him like a cape. Hot on his heels was a young woman dressed in tan slacks and a paisley cardigan, her medium-length, mousy brown hair swinging in a ponytail. She was gasping for breath, but the fire in her brown eyes revealed she wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon.

"Sorry, I didn't exactly prepare for running a marathon today!" Molly Hooper said between gasps.

The corner of Sherlock Holmes' mouth curled up in amusement. He snatched up a wrench from atop a bin and hurled it with expert aim at the masked man. It hit him squarely on the back of his head, and with a groan he crumbled to the ground. When Sherlock reached the prone form, he pushed him over onto his back and ripped the mask off. The man was slipping in and out of consciousness but was otherwise unhurt. Sherlock picked up his wrist and extended the large hand towards Molly. It was covered in a fine white dust.

"Arsenic," Molly deduced.

"Mr. Ofosu here is a skilled dancer, but also a very careful murderer. He laced the Ghanaian ambassador's plate with arsenic powder between performances, and no one even noticed he was gone. This time, however, he heard our footsteps and accidentally spilled it all over his hand. Unable to remove the evidence in time, he made a break for it. He also has a pocketknife, an heirloom from his grandfather, concealed in his sleeve that—" Sherlock caught Ofosu's other wrist as it flashed towards him and twisted it, so that the sharp knife clattered on the cobblestones a second later "—he will unsuccessfully try to kill me with. In two minutes I'll tell Scotland Yard to add one more attempted murder to your list of charges, Ofosu."

As if on cue, sirens blared through the fog, and several police vehicles swung into the alley. Sherlock grinned.

"Show-off," Molly shook her head, but she couldn't help being impressed. He never ceased to amaze her.

Sherlock released Ofosu, and two policemen hauled him to his feet and snapped handcuffs on him. The Ghanaian assassin spat curses as they took him away, but Sherlock merely brushed his hands off and straightened his navy cashmere scarf. Popping his collar up against the cold night air, he headed back the way they had come.

"So how did you know about the pocketknife's history?" Molly asked. She lengthened her strides to keep up.

"It was an antique, at least fifty years old, and very valuable, the handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Ofosu is by no means a rich man, so how did he come by such a treasure? He could have stolen it, but only if the original owner had the same initials as him. They were etched into the handle. Now, Ofosu is the third male in his family to bear his name, so the knife probably belonged to his grandfather, the first Kofi Michael Ofosu. Why didn't he sell it to pay off some of his gambling debts instead of hiring himself out as an assassin? Because it has sentimental value; he was close to his grandfather. Ofosu additionally reasoned that the knife would serve as a spare weapon." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and quickly sent a text detailing Ofosu's offenses to Detective Inspector Lestrade. "Child's play, really."

"Oh yes, elementary." Molly rolled her eyes. "Are you going to tell John about this one?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and pretended to be interested in a patch of bricks on the nearest building. "Um, no, I don't think so. What with Mary getting closer to her due date and their move into a bigger flat—I'm sure he has far too much on his mind to care about something as trivial as the apprehension of a foreign assassin."

"You didn't tell him about the ghost ship case either."

"Well it did only take us a day to solve that one; the smugglers weren't very creative fellows. Frankly he'd find it rather dull."

"Or about the disappearance of the Queen's favorite lapdog."

"That was barely a 3. I only said yes because it was the Queen."

"Sherlock, he doesn't know I've been filling in for him again, does he?"

"Nonsense! Of course he does."

"Mary knowing doesn't count."

Sherlock stopped so suddenly that Molly almost ran into him. He fixed his gaze on hers. "How do you know that Mary knows?"

There was a time when Molly would have been sent into a fit of nervousness by that calculating gaze, but aiding him in faking his death and then running all over London solving crimes with him these past months had transformed her from skittish, awkward, and lovesick into moderately confident and comfortable with just being his friend. Needless to say she was also more difficult to manipulate whenever Sherlock required access to the morgue, but he had to admit he liked this new side of her. She made an excellent assistant. Maybe not quite on the level of Dr. John Watson, but a very close second.

"I have my ways," Molly said mysteriously. She started walking again, brushing past him. He followed.

"No you don't. She got it out of you."

"Alright, so maybe she did. But she hasn't said anything to John. She's of the opinion that it's something you need to do."

"That woman is too involved in our lives."

"Well she is the wife of your best friend. And besides, you wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock didn't respond, which was the same as an affirmation for him. Molly smiled. She was slowly beginning to understand his little quirks. It wasn't clear to her yet if this was a good thing or not.

"Fine. I'll talk to him about it tomorrow morning. Are you hungry? There's a Chinese place around the corner that stays open until 2am."

Molly cocked her head to the side, thinking. "I am feeling a bit peckish. You did pretty much ruin supper."

"I saved the Prime Minister from suffering the same fate as the Ghanaian ambassador. Hardly what I'd call 'ruining supper'."

"Call it whatever you like. Regardless, you're paying for whatever I order at this restaurant."

"What if I said I forgot my wallet at my flat?"

"Then I'd say you're lying. You never forget anything, and after your tussle with Ofosu, I saw you pat the pocket where you keep it to ensure that it hadn't fallen out. Don't even try to get out of this one, Mr. Consulting Detective."

"Observant, Miss Pathologist." Sherlock chuckled throatily. "I fear I may be rubbing off on you."

"I should probably be concerned."

"Most definitely."