"No, I understand. Yes. Yes. Of course. No, that won't be necessary, I'll take care of it myself." Sherlock paced the sitting room of 221B, obviously irritated at the person on the other end of his mobile. "I'm sure I can figure something out." Sherlock sighed and moved the phone away from his ear, picking at an invisible piece of lint on his jacket instead of listening. After a few moments he put the phone back to his ear. "I'll send you the information when I've got it, and I'll be ready by Saturday morning, don't trouble yourself."

He jabbed at the phone, ending the call, and threw his phone onto the sofa, then threw himself into his favorite chair. Sherlock hated owing debts, and he especially hated owing debts to his brother, of all people. But when "Moriarty's Return" had been nothing of the sort, Mycroft had dug in his heels and saved Sherlock from having to take the suicide mission that was his "punishment" for killing Magnusson.

And for the last six months, Mycroft had used this to his advantage, sending his brother all over the world to solve crimes and do work for him.

Including this time.

Sherlock sighed and stood, snatching his phone off the sofa before storming down the stairs and out the door to catch a cab. Mrs. Hudson called out after him, "The doors, Sherlock! You're going to throw them right off the hinges one of these days!"

But she called out to a closed door as the heavy door of 221 slammed shut behind him.

Sherlock spent the time in the cab untwisting his emotions and shedding the anger at Mycroft. It wouldn't do for anyone to see him like this. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, wishing for the tenth time that day that he could have a cigarette. He'd been four months without one, though, and his record was six months. His desire to break the record won out over his desire to smoke, and he promised himself a nicotine patch when he got home.

The cab dropped him off in front of St. Bart's, and he made his way in and down to the morgue. Molly stood over a body, slicing and weighing and measuring, quietly recording her findings in the recorder hanging over the table. She was so deep in concentration she didn't hear Sherlock arrive.

He stood and watched her for a few moments, and then cleared his throat.

Molly's head shot up. "Oh...Sherlock. I didn't hear you come in. You're usually not so quiet." She pulled off her gloves and reached up, turning the recording off. "I'm not going to be in the lab for a while, but if you need to use anything, feel free to let yourself in."

Sherlock stepped over to her, stopping to stare down into the body cavity of the person she was autopsying. "Do you think that's what my lungs look like?" he said distractedly. Molly peered in. "No, that's a three pack a day smoker for many years. But don't think that makes it okay for you to start again!" She smiled up at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Whether or not I resume smoking has little to do with the state of my lungs and more to do with the state of the rest of my life. Speaking of stressors, Mycroft has a new mission for me."

"Oh?" said Molly, "Where to?"

"An island in the United States. Mackinac Island. Which is spelled differently from the city on the mainland, Mackinaw City. I suspect it has to do with the Native American influences in the area, although I haven't had time to do any real research today. Anyway, it is located in the state of Michigan, which is in the northern part of the country, bordering Canada."

Molly listened, absentmindedly, wondering when she'd be able to finish up this autopsy and go home.

"The island is very interesting, though. No motorized vehicles are allowed on the island, save for emergency vehicles and snowmobiles, which are like jet ski's for snow. It's a touristy, vacation spot for it's quaintness."

Molly tilted her head. "Sounds nice, actually. How do people get around?"

"Horseback, bicycle, and walking, mostly." Sherlock watched Molly. "Do you? Do you think it sounds nice?"

Molly nodded. "It seems like it would be quiet and peaceful. You say you have a mission there?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. There's been a string of murders at one of the hotels and no one has been able to figure out who is responsible."

Molly reached for a new set of gloves. "Well, have fun, Sherlock. I really do need to finish this autopsy so I can go home, though." Her hands hovered over the button to the recorder, watching him.

"Molly…" Sherlock started. "My brother seems to think that since this is a tourist location, I would draw less attention to myself if I didn't go...alone."

Molly's breath caught, and she watched Sherlock."Okay?"

"I need someone that will provide me a convenient cover story for being there. I was wondering if you would like to come with me as my...cover story."

Molly stared at Sherlock, uncomprehending. "Why don't you just take John? He's always assisting you on cases."

Sherlock looked at Molly. "Molly, this is a romantic tourist destination. While I doubt anyone there would recognize me or John, the last thing we need is to disappear off together on a romantic summer island holiday."

Molly conceded that this might be true. "What about Mary? She has...skills that might come in handy on a case like that."

Sherlock shook his head. "Taking my best friend's wife on vacation wouldn't help the rumors much either, and besides, she's still nursing the...infant."

Molly swatted at Sherlock. "Sherlock, that infant has a name, Olivia, and is your Goddaughter! And yes, I suppose at this point Mary's pretty well established with her nursing."

"I know the science says it's best for her to nurse as long as possible," grumbled Sherlock, "But it is frustrating to learn that she's such an asset after she goes and gets herself pregnant.

Molly leaned over and lightly smacked Sherlock on the arm. "She's your friend, not an ASSET."

"In any event," said Sherlock, ignoring her scolding, "I need someone to go on this trip with me and play the part of my romantic partner. And I've made my way through the options and it's either you or Anthea, and I do not want to spend even one day with Anthea, much less five. First, because we don't much get along, and second, because I highly suspect it would make Mycroft jealous. Mycroft jealous is an ugly thing, you should see him when someone beats him to the last serving of dessert at holiday dinner."

Molly giggled at this, and seemed to relax. She closed her eyes and opened them again. "Well, I do have some time off coming. And it would be pretty silly to turn down a free island getaway. When do we leave?"

Sherlock nodded. "Be at Baker Street Saturday morning at 7. Bring about a week's worth of clothes and...whatever you need for a holiday." Suddenly uncomfortable, he turned and made his way back to the door of the morgue. "Don't be late, Molly."

Sherlock made his way back to Baker Street. He wasn't altogether comfortable with the idea of bringing Molly along, but since he'd returned from his self-imposed exile she had been more relaxed and comfortable around him. While he could tell she was still attracted to him, the giggly school-girl crush had seemed to fade, and he hoped that meant she'd realized that he was a terrible choice of romantic partner. Although, if he had to be honest, probably not as terrible as Meat Dagger had been. At least he had more than four brain cells to rub together.

So Molly it was. She'd get a vacation, she'd stay out of the way, and he'd at least have an excuse to be there while he tried to figure out why people kept turning up dead at the resort hotel.

When he got back to Baker Street he texted Mycroft that Dr. Hooper would be accompanying him, and to get all the paperwork and travel arrangements done. He then sat down with his laptop and started doing research on the Island, preparing for his next mission.