Molly was quite accustomed to seeing dead people.

Not to be clichéd or anything. She hadn't even liked that movie, but then she had never been a Bruce Willis fan. But her day-to-day life involved dealing with dead people. She knew all about the bits and pieces of human bodies—the wobbly bits, the stiff bits, the really ugly bits, the rather attractive bits (usually faces, eyes and hair) and the ordinary bits or even the hilarious bits. Even for the funny bits, she had not started doing pantomimes in the morgue, like a semi-legendary pathologist who had been caught holding a Punch and Judy Show with two dead barristers and a paralegal (also dead).

But to see him dead was really quite startling.

She hadn't seen him in years. He had been a rather nice fellow, really, if a bit too fascinated with the female form. Up until then, Molly hadn't really met a man who wasn't fascinated with the female form, until she had met Sherlock Homes, who seemed immune to feminine wiles. But back then, at nineteen, she had no other point of reference and so the man's interest in her had been fairly typical, if somewhat startling. His proposal, back then, had proven profitable to her and he had been utterly discreet. He had been, and a genuine friendship (of sorts) had formed between them. It had never been even remotely sexual, as he was happily married, but he was an artist and he had declared that Molly had a model's form. After she had stopped laughing, she had agreed. He was, she had long ago realized, the only man she had ever known, besides her father, who hadn't disappointed or hurt her. She and Sir David had kept up correspondence over the years, but his growing fame and travel made keeping in contact rather difficult, but his emails were always funny and full of stories of some of the more bizarre people he had met.

"Sir David Livingstone-Hayes, sixty-four, dead of an apparent aneurysm. He was found in his studio, dead as a nail, his portrait of a bowl of oranges unfinished," Crane told her, making marks on the paper on his clipboard. "Looks like he lived a good life."

Indeed, David did look rather jolly, except for the dead part, and Molly half expected him to crack one of his silly jokes, or draw a goofy picture. She still had one he had done just for her, on her birthday, of an indignant-looking elephant holding up one leg and glaring down at a tiny mouse, saying "You kicked me!" She supposed that little drawing would catch her a pretty piece of cash, but no way would she ever sell it. He had been kind to her, and had treated her with respect. He had even said she was pretty, many times, but she hadn't believed him. He had also pointed out that the little mouse was Molly. "Don't ever let your size make you think you can't fight, little Molly Hooper," he had said. "I know you'll knock 'em in the Old Great Hall."

"I knew him," Molly said. "He taught drawing at where I went to university."

"Oh." Crane frowned. "Pretty cut and dry, then, eh? I've got a thing tonight, so perhaps you… "

She sighed. Wouldn't Crane be shocked to know what Molly Hooper had gotten up to, back at college, so many years ago? "Yes, I'll wrap it up."

"Good little Molly," Crane smiled, putting down the clipboard. She briefly considered braining him with it, but opted against it, as that would mean two autopsies tonight. She pulled on a new set of gloves and went to work. Crane was grabbing his coat and heading for the doors. "It's really so kind of you, but if you'd rather I did it I'd be happy to stay and finish up and let you go on home, I know you've got stuff to do and… hold that lift!" He went through the doors at a gallop and she sighed. Good little Molly would finish up, just like always.

"Hm. Dead artist."

Holmes only blinked once in response. His head was pounding, and he refused to admit that he was catching a cold. Possibly even the flu. Considering he had spent the night tossing up everything he had eaten in the past bloody year was of little consequence now. John had told him to get a flu shot. He had even said, 'Get off your lazy arse and get a shot, or you're going nowhere near my daughter', but Sherlock had put him on semi-mute and resumed reading a fascinating article on maggots and their effect on dead bodies. He could certainly live without coming in contact with soiled nappies.

Molly Hooper had written the article. Back when she was at university, even. He rather appreciated her clear, concise thinking and rather matter-of-fact descriptions of how insects and their larvae could be used to determine time of death, and whether the dead person had died in that very spot or if it had been carried there. He rather liked her terminology: The field of forensic pathology is greatly dependent on the life cycle of the maggot and various kinds of flesh-eating beetles and bacteria. This course of specialized study has led to the apprehension and conviction of many murderers and has also brought peace and comfort to families and loved ones of the deceased—the natural desire of a family member to know the how and why a person met his or her end is of vital importance to criminologists, who will be able to provide closure to those suffering such loss. Pathologists must thus continuously work toward perfecting this field of study, with the grieving families in mind at all times." She had even collaborated with a professor of forensic pathology at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, where that exquisitely fascinating Body Farm was found. She supplied proper respect for the dead but did not gush about with sentiment and coolly described the life cycle of the maggot in precise terms, and even managed to give words to the scent of the creatures ("To myself, the scent of larvae-stage maggots is somewhat akin to wet parchment paper, with a rather musty sharpness added—not entirely unpleasant, but not one anyone would generally relish.") and how one could determine at what stage the…

"You don't think it's a case?"

"Overindulgence in brie and red wine. Brie counterbalanced the wine. Had a wife and two daughters who tolerated him well enough. No murder, but if you're that keen, you could always apply to a cheese maker in France as the culprit and we'd have a lovely holiday in… never mind. It would still be France, which would be a fine country were it not infested with French people. Is it any wonder Lestrade's ancestors are from there?"

John shook the paper and continued reading. "All his paintings and drawings are to be sold at auction in two weeks," he said, rubbing his eyes wearily. "To pay for death duties. Lots of it's worth a good bit. He did a portrait of the Queen and her corgis."

Holmes moaned and scrambled to his feet, rushing toward the loo. Watson watched him impassively, feeling no sympathy whatsoever. "I told you to get a flu shot."

"Shut up!" Holmes hissed, his head in the toilet.

The next day

"Why do you constantly feel the need to do that?" Molly asked Toby, pushing the cat off and sitting up, rubbing her eyes. She hadn't gotten home until almost two in the morning, and the cat had awakened her again by placing his over-indulged arse right on her face.

The cat gave no reasons and ambled off toward the kitchen. She went to the loo, scrubbed her face and went to the kitchen. A thump on the door signaled the arrival of the paper, and she trudged out to retrieve it before that old bat next door nicked it. Toby stropped his tail around her leg as she picked up the bundle and casually scanned the headlines. She sat down at her table and thumbed through the pages, not terribly interested in politics but taking in world news and what sorts of sales were going on at the shops and such. She checked what was showing at the cinema (did she really want to see Shawn the Sheep? It did sound rather amusing, but she had little pleasure in watching films while surrounded by a bunch of wiggly children) and finally turned over to the arts section.

The headline made her gasp in horror.

Sir David Livingstone-Hayes, 64, dead of brain aneurysm. Widow to auction artist's entire collection in two weeks.

His collection.

His entire collection.

Molly read the paper, hand over her mouth, eyes wide with pure… God Almighty, she didn't know what. Horror? Humiliation?

Amusement?

Certainly not that. He had promised her that the drawings and the painting would not be made public, but his wife hadn't made such a promise, and she had death duties to pay (damned government-funded muggers, Molly thought, not for the first time) and wouldn't care a whit if those items might cause a mousy little pathologist at St. Barts more embarrassment than could even be measured. David had kept the promise, she knew, and she couldn't picture him sitting up at night, staring at any of them and drooling—he had been faithful to his wife and a loving father to his daughters—but they were going to be sold. To someone. Who might do a bit of research and…

Dear God.

She jumped up and rushed into her bedroom. It took her a few minutes to find her jeans and a T-shirt, jammed her feet into a pair of loafers and barely remembered to pour some kibble into Toby's bowl before rushing out the door. The old bat next door was shuffling down the hall and looked disappointed, though probably just because there was no paper at Molly's door to nick again. "Goin' out, luv?" she called.

"Yes, Mrs. Bat-… er, Mrs. Crewson. Cheerie-bye!" Molly hailed a cab and once settled inside said, very quickly, "Grayson House, 14 Barrow Road, Knightsbridge, please."

"All I said was that if you had gotten a flu shot you wouldn't be suffering as you are now, you naff git, but instead you're tossing up meals you ate last year and that you are in fact delirious from fever. So yes, you are sick, and no, I am not Paddington Bear come to steal your bloody marmalade!" John growled.

"I'm dying," Sherlock moaned. "I'm dying and Paddington Bear is stealing my marmalade and then berating me for objecting. How would you feel if a bear wearing a silly hat stole your marmalade?"

"You're not dying, and you can't really afford to. It would be quite inconvenient for me to scrape up your remains and Molly would-" He stopped, mouth twisting a little. There was no use bringing up the subject of Molly Hooper to Sherlock Holmes.

The world's only consulting detective was lying on his stomach on his bed, looking paler than ever before, and John supposed his words were now muffled by the pillow Sherlock was holding over his head. Watson shook his head. "Listen, I've got to get to my actual paying job and I certainly don't want to pass your… ailment to Mary and my daughter. So stay in bed, drink lots of fluids, and try not to whine so much. I'm fairly certain Mrs Hudson does actually know how to operate a gun, you know, what with having been married to a drug cartel leader, so I would keep any moaning and complaining to a minimum."

Holmes twitched. "You are cruelty itself, Paddington."

"And you are?"

Lady Livingstone-Hayes stared at Molly, bewildered.

"Molly Hooper, ma'am. I'm… I'm a pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital. I was very sorry to hear of your husband's death. He was a very nice man—he taught me drawing at University."

"Oh. I see."

"I'm sure you're going through a great deal right now, but you see… "

"He was such a dotty-minded man," the newly-minted widow said, wiping her eyes. "But he was so kind. He left all the paintings and drawings to me, see, and told me a few years ago to see to them after I died, but poor man, he never thought of death duties and his debts and… "

"… he has some drawings and a painting that I would really… "

"… it all really has to go, just so I can at least afford a little flat. My daughters both work, you know, but for heaven's sake, I can't expect them to take me in and support me. Poppy has a husband and children and Cecelia works. I don't want to be a burden, and I can't imagine living in this huge old house now my David is gone. Something smaller would be better, I think. The floors are so slippery… "

"… would like to buy from you, ma'am. I understand you're auctioning them off."

"Buy them?" The older woman studied Molly for a moment. "Dear, most of David's paintings are worth quite a bit of tin. He's got his work at the Tate! Plus he's got sculptures and some pottery and glass and even some enamels and miniatures… "

"I know. I know he does, ma'am, but there are some drawings and one painting that I would like to… to buy."

"Which ones?"

Molly squeezed her eyes shut. "The painting is called The Girl in the Mirror and the others are of the same girl in various… uh… poses."

"Oh, dear, they weren't naughty poses, were they? Before David and I married he did play the field a bit… he didn't tell me all the details, thank goodness, but he was no angel… "

"No, they're not naughty, per se, but they are… that is to say, she is… the girl is… naked."

"Oh." The older woman dabbed at her eyes again with her handkerchief.

"I know this is very… rude of me, to come here, just days after your husband's death, but really... this is important."

"Do you know the girl?"

"Er… yes."

"Is she a good friend?"

"I would say so, I guess," Molly finally managed.

"I will need to talk with my daughters, of course. I'm sure we can come to an agreement. Miss… ?"

"Hooper. Molly Hooper."

"Leave your name with my husband's secretary, Miss Cowan." Lady Livingstone-Hayes gave Molly a guiltily conspiratorial look. "She's American, but she's very smart and with it, and I'm so glad she'll be here with me until the funeral, though she has to leave the country today to collect some of David's pieces in Italy… or was it Ireland? My daughters will also want to put their ore in. Sometimes they're not very nice, my girls, but Miss Cowan can… how do you young folks put it? Tear them a new one, I think. My Cecelia and Poppy are both deathly afraid of her."

Molly knew the interview was over. She nodded and edged out of the art-infested room in the elegant mansion in Knightsbridge. Out in the marble-floored hallway, she peered around, half expecting to see the painting at least, but it was not in sight. She closed her eyes, then turned around and almost bumped into a pretty, well-dressed young woman.

"Hello. May I help you?"

Molly detected the woman's strong American Southern accent. She was a little taller than Molly, and she was dressed in expensive clothes, wore a pearl necklace and on her wrist was a simple silver bracelet that had to be as old as England itself. At first Molly thought the woman was going to be hostile or at least superior, but the woman's expression went from vaguely suspicious to kind and even friendly. She had auburn-colored hair, lovely jade-green eyes and a wide, easily smiling mouth.

"I'm sorry. I didn't meant to scare you. What can I do for you? Were you visiting Lady Livingstone-Hayes?"

"Yes. I'm… I'm Molly Hooper. I was a friend of Sir David's… sort of."

"Oh, I see." There was no apprising look. Only kind curiosity.

"She told me to leave you my number. I'm hoping to… to buy a painting and some drawings of Sir David's, that he did while teaching at university." Molly scrambled in her handbag, looking for something to write on, and the young woman smiled.

"It's all right. Let me get you a card and a pen… you call them Biros, right?"

"Right."

"I've never been able to call them that. But then people wonder why I'm calling it a 'pin'! Even Yankees back home would hand me a hairpin instead of a writing instrument." The woman smiled and went to a priceless-looking Louis XIV table and found a small card and a silver pen. "How did you know Sir David?"

"I was a student of his. I'm hoping to purchase some drawings and a portrait that he did of… of a friend of mine."

"Oh, are you an artist?"

"No. I'm a pathologist, actually." Molly nervously tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. She felt out of place now, surrounded by such opulence and in the presence of this cool, collected but clearly kind-hearted American. "I… I perform autopsies at St. Bart's."

"Really? How interesting. Not for me, of course. I can't even watch CSI. I suppose you could put those artistic skills you were taught to some use there. Still-lifes and all." The secretary smiled, and Molly smiled back, but her tension and stress were both doing damage to her usual good humor. "I'm Olivia Cowan, by the way. Sir David's PA these past four years." She handed the card to Molly, who quickly scribbled her name and number on it and handed it back. Olivia handed her another card. "My cell number. I don't have a home number—what's the point? I'm never there. I'm afraid I will be out of town until tomorrow afternoon. I've got to meet with all sorts of people and make all the arrangements for the memorial service and the auction. Sir David's death was pretty unexpected, so we're all caught flat-footed and I've got scramblin' to do. He's got art all over Europe and God knows where else, and it all has to be collected and cataloged. I'm having nightmares about some sculptures of his that we think some Italian prince has on loan and the family wants them back. I've got just two weeks to get it all squared away and gathered at Granville House."

"Yes, I heard there's a lot out there." Molly gulped. A lot out there, and it was all valuable. Last year one of David's paintings had sold in New York for more than a million dollars. "Granville House? I would have though the auction would be at Bonhams."

"I did, too, but Poppy and Cecelia—Sir David's daughters—insist on having it at Granville House. Probably because Cecelia is angling at the Marquess of Canton's son. Though I will admit it's an ideal location and the rooms there can display the pictures so well and it is used a lot in these kinds of auctions."

"Oh. Right." Molly swallowed.

"Listen, I'll be sure to keep an eye out for the painting and drawings for you, but I honestly can't say as I'm sure I'll get 'round to them before the end of next week. But if I do come across them, I'll be sure and call you, okay? I'm sure Lady Iris and the girls will be willing to at least consider any offer you might submit."

Molly nodded. As if she could really offer. She made enough to pay her rent, feed her cat, and get Chinese takeaway once a week if she really pinched her pennies. She sighed. "I performed Sir David's autopsy. At St. Bart's."

Olivia looked surprised. "Did you? That must have been hard for you, having known him. It was hard enough for me, telling Lady Iris after I found him in his studio. He was a sweet, funny man. I've worked with other artists and most of 'em are temperamental divas who think they hung the Moon and should have the right to bed anything with breasts, and most of them have the morals of maggots, but Sir David was very kind. Goofy, but kind." She studied Molly for a moment. "Molly Hooper… I swear I've heard your name somewhere."

Molly swallowed. Her name had been in the papers, after Sherlock's faked suicide. Not even Mycroft had been able to completely quash all the headlines. "I… may have been in the tabloids last year… I sort of know… someone kind of, er, famous… "

"No, not in the tabloids. I don't read them. So vulgar, and full of more lies and fabrications than anything you'd see on MSNBC. Let me think." She closed her eyes, and Molly wondered if she had a mind palace. "Yes! Sir David mentioned a Molly Hooper once." She studied Molly carefully, clearly measuring the real Molly against the one described. "Yes. Indeed. Well." She smiled brightly. "Nice to put a face to a name."

Olivia picked up her own handbag, and Molly saw it was a Gucci. Olivia glanced at Molly's bag and suddenly grinned. "Yours is more practical. I have to carry this about for show, and the strap kills my neck. When I go back home to Alabama, it's a denim bag from Wal-Mart and leather sandals from Goodwill, by Dixie. I hope I can help you somehow, Molly, but the items being offered will all realize very high prices and…" She looked at an exquisite ormolu clock on a table. "I have to be in Rome in… hot galloping drat, less than six hours! I hope you don't mind seeing yourself out, but I have to dash!" She smiled warmly at Molly and rushed out, steady on stiletto heels and breathtaking in Dolce & Gabanna. Molly stepped out onto the portico and watched the elegant and clearly worldly Olivia Cowan climb into a black limousine and glide away.

"Feeling better?"

Holmes glared at Mrs Hudson, wishing she would stop screaming.

She shrugged at his lack of response and set the tray down by his chair, crockery rattling loudly. He had at least made it back out of his bedroom (God Almighty did it stink in there) to sit and stare at the television. Two fat, slug-like opposing sides in a paternity suit were shouting at each other, while the rather large mother attempted to mediate. He turned it off.

"John said to eat. I'm to force you if necessary."

"You can't force me," he said, narrowing his eyes.

His attention was diverted from Mrs Hudson's own narrowing eyes and hand reaching into her pocket for something by the sight of Molly Hooper standing in the doorway, looking shy and knocking lightly. "I'm sorry… I guess I should… "

"Molly. Grand to see you. Don't even think of using that thing, Mrs Hudson, as it's not legal and I know you have a very tender conscience. Now. Amscray."

"What on earth is that?"

"Pig Latin. Scram. Go. Depart. Leave us." His gaze didn't leave Molly, even as he spoke to Mrs Hudson.

Shaking her head and mumbling darkly, Mrs Hudson left and Molly inched nervously into the flat, looking around the rather unkempt room. Actually, it looked hideously messy. "Don't you ever clean?" she asked.

"When boredom becomes utterly overwhelming. Then I get John to do it, or if I wish to listen to aimless nattering, I'll get the Hudders to do it. Please sit." She started to sit on the ottoman beside her. "Not there. In that chair." He pointed at John's chair, and she sat down, directly opposite him, knees together, hands clutched in her lap.

He looked terribly pale, even more than usual, and his hair was twice as disheveled as ever and he was just as gorgeous. Perhaps a little… greenish, she thought, but… he was in sweaty pajamas and his long red robe and even now, clearly not feeling well, he was as elegant as… well, Olivia Cowan, come to think of it. Mary had mentioned to her that Sherlock had been ill lately, but Molly had known better than to go visit him. He wouldn't want her.

"Now, what do you need, Molly?" he asked, somewhat pleasantly.

"Oh. Right. Well. I… um… well, see, I have a bit of a problem."

He said nothing. Just settled that cool blue-green gaze on her, waiting. He had, since humiliating her at that dreadful Christmas party, ceased deducing her. He saved his comments, polite or rude, for necessity only and accepted being berated (and even slapped) by her when he deserved it. It was something she didn't let herself dwell on any more, of course, that he didn't return her feelings for him, but he treated her with respect. Aside from those lonely, dark-of-night fantasies she sometimes indulged, there was at least that. He didn't see her as a woman, but at least he did see her as a person and not someone he could get away with mocking.

Feminists would say that was the ultimate goal, but as her mother would point out, feminists also wore ugly pantsuits, wanted to outlaw anything remotely humorous ("Why else do you think they have Women's Studies courses at universities now?"), and never received flowers from anybody as a result.

As if I've received that many bouquets of flowers, Molly thought, but she pushed that twinge of bitterness away.

"Aaaand that problem would be?" Sherlock asked, keeping an even tone to his voice.

"Oh. Yes. I… see, when I was at university, I was friends with a well-known artist there who taught drawing and painting and… and he offered me a bit of money to… "

"Assist him with canvases."

"No."

"Clean brushes."

"No."

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"Can I continue?" she huffed, annoyed.

He nodded, accepting chastisement gracefully. It did strike Molly that anyone else would receive a sharp snipe in return.

"He asked me to pose for some… portraits. One portrait and some drawings in charcoals and pastels."

His gaze was blank.

"See, the artist—Sir David Livingstone-Hayes—has died and his family intends to sell the portrait and the drawings at auction. But see, he promised me he would never exhibit them, but I suppose he didn't think much of dying at the time, and he apparently had some rather largish death duties and the family is going to auction them off."

His gaze remained blank. Molly drew her breath, wondering if he was deducing her now. She knew she was wringing her hands anxiously and that her face was pink—anybody could see she was rattled and nervous.

"I would much rather take ownership of those items. But I don't have the money. His widow told me that she thinks they're worth a pretty penny and… really, Sherlock, could you at least react?"

"What am I reacting to?" he asked slowly, keeping a steady gaze on her.

"The portraits."

"I'm sure they're fine portraits, Molly. I'm fairly safe in assuming that they are quite respectable: you strolling through a garden in Victorian garb, or sitting in a sunny glen reading Tennyson, or perhaps you were dressed up like Guinevere knighting Sir Lancelot or… "

"Naked. I was naked."

"…sitting on a pony or perhaps… what?"

"They're nudes. I'm… nude. In the paintings and drawings, that is. Naked."

"Na—… " Sherlock's eyes widened and he stared at Molly, blue-green eyes taking on a shade she had never seen before.

"Yes!" she snapped, annoyed. "Naked. In the buff. In my birthday suit. I was naked. He gave me a good bit of tin for it, too, and it paid for a lot while I was at university—in fact, it covered my rent and groceries for almost two years—and he promised to never exhibit them… I never knew, exactly, why he promised to not sell them or exhibit them, but he promised without me even asking. Perhaps he saw how much I was struggling at the time. I don't come from a rich family by any means and I only took the art class because I was getting so… so burned out on pathology and looking at slides and studying the life-cycle of the scarab beetle and all the rest and I needed a break, you know? Something else to do, and he said I was relatively good at drawing people, particularly faces, but he thought I would be a good model, too, so… "

"Model," he said. Not a question or a sarcastic edge. Just a statement.

"Yes," she said tightly, lifting her chin a bit.

"Go on." His gaze did not leave her face. Didn't even travel downwards, like any other man would do. Of course, he was not like any other man.

"So I posed. Several times. He did a lot of sketches—nine in all—and one painting."

"Pastels?"

"Oils. The sketches were charcoals and pastels, but the portrait was in oils. It's called The Girl in the Mirror."

"Ah. Right. Go on."

"But now he's dead and his family is going to sell them. At an auction." She looked at Sherlock, daring to meet his gaze, and she saw nothing really clear there. Not mockery or amusement or even sympathy. Just… curiosity. "A public auction, Sherlock."

"I see."

As if you'd really want to, she thought, anger bubbling up and carefully tamped back down. She would bang pots and pans at home, later.

"People will recognize me. My mother will see them."

"This would be a high-end auction, Molly. Only very posh people would be attending. Only those sorts of folks would see the catalog, if one is distributed publicly or online. I don't see why you would be so upset." He paused, editing his thoughts, because… well, he did respect her, and their trust was mutual. "Not to speak ill of you or your family or the company you keep, obviously, but you don't travel in those circles."

"I don't want people seeing it. Or them… seeing me, that is."

"So why did you pose nude?" he asked, and she saw a tiny flicker of something in his eyes, but only for a moment. It was gone before she could really catalog it.

"I needed the money and I guess I was tired of being 'Good little Molly'," she answered, spreading her hands on her lap. "I suppose I wanted to be able to say, for once, that I could do something out of character but that it would still be mine. I don't know. I can't explain it. Sir John promised me he'd never sell them or put them in an exhibit, and he kept his word, though I can't imagine they'd be worth anything anyway. He… I guess he wanted to help me. He said I was quite good at drawing, but would make a good bit of money if I posed for him, and so… so I agreed."

"Indeed."

She held his gaze, refusing to let him embarrass her.

"And you came to me for…?"

"Well, bloody hell, Sherlock, certainly not for moral support!" she snapped.

Had she looked a little closer, she would have caught a glimpse of hurt in his eyes. But he covered that by taking a sip of his tea.

"So where do I come in?" he asked, after carefully settling the beaker back on the table by his chair.

"I was hoping you would buy them for me, and I could pay you back over time."

Silence. Sherlock stared at Molly. Outside, a police siren screamed by, and once it was gone it was replaced by a dog barking. Someone finally shushed the dog and the only sound in the room was a clock ticking. Molly clutched her hands together and pursed her lips. He continued to just sit there, staring at her.

Finally he cleared his throat a little. "You want me to buy nine nude drawings and a nude portrait of you at an auction."

Suddenly she realized what she had just asked him. She had just asked Sherlock Holmes, who knew she had a hopeless crush on him, to attend an auction (with other people around) and make bids on an oil portrait and nine drawings of her in the buff. To shell out money for pictures of her. He wouldn't shell out a shilling for a snapshot of her in her best frock and fascinator.

Had she lost her bloody MIND?!

He was probably doing all he could to not laugh, but because he did respect her, at least a little, he was keeping a straight face. His self-control was, after all legendary.

"Oh my God," Molly gasped, mortification making all the blood drain from her face. She stood up, which launched Sherlock to his feet, though that effort seemed to make him a bit wobbly. Respectful toward the person, indifferent toward the woman. "Oh my God… I cannot believe I… oh my God! What was I thinking?!"

Sherlock looked like he might say something, but suddenly he made a strange gulping sound, gasped, lurched away from her and staggered quickly toward the loo, mumbling something that sounded like 'I apologize', but that was a little too much to hope for. Molly grabbed her handbag, mumbled her own 'I'm sorry' and fled. She didn't hear Sherlock retching or his shouted "Wait!" She was already on Baker Street by the time he emerged from the bathroom, apologizing and telling an empty room that he had the flu and that his stomach had declared outright war on him. He went to the window and watched as she climbed into a cab and rolled away.

"Damn!"

The next day:

Come post haste to Baker Street – SH

What? Why? Do I need to bring back-up? – GL

Because in spite of past indifferent examples of any discernible talent at criminal investigation, you are rather necessary in an upcoming course of action. - SH

Good God, are we invading Normandy? – GL

No. Far worse. We are going on a visit to Knightsbridge. – SH

Lestrade arrived at Baker Street at the same time as John and Mary Watson, and the three of them were mystified together as they climbed the steps up to Sherlock's flat. He greeted them at the door with a harried expression and a mumbled 'Thank you, no' when Mary offered to make him some tea. He sat down, crossed his knees, and folded his hands in his prayer pose, thinking.

"All right," Watson said after several moments of tense silence. "Why are we here?"

"Because we are on a mission," Sherlock finally intoned. "A rescue mission, so to speak."

"In Knightsbridge? What, somebody kidnap Prince George?" Lestrade asked with a grin.

"No, Graham, and if you've nothing useful to say, you will please restrict your comments to the weather. We are going to rescue some… items that belong to someone very important."

"Somebody nick something from Mycroft?" John asked, looking a little confused. Mary, having left their daughter in the care of an eager teenaged girl from next door, looked relieved to be out of the house and onto something aside from nappies and three a.m. feedings. Just the same, she was as bewildered by Sherlock's behavior as John and Greg.

"No. MI6 couldn't nick something from Mycroft. I could, but that's another death threat. Someone far more important than him, actually, requires these items be returned to her immediately. We need to find a way to get our hands on these items."

John pondered carefully. "Um… I thought Irene Adler was dead… "

"Not her!" Sherlock snapped. "Good God, John, do you think I'm that shallow? No, indeed. These items belong to… a client."

He was answered by three blank stares.

"There are certain… portraits, shall we say, of this client—a young woman—that she would rather not have… publicized."

"Portraits?" John asked.

"Nude portraits, actually," Sherlock finally ground out, picking up his cup of tea and taking a calming sip, but John didn't miss a slight tremor in the man's hand.

"Really? Where?" Lestrade asked eagerly, and was met with three appalled stares. He looked chagrined. "Come on. Three of us here are human." He scratched the back of his neck, and they all continued to stare at him. "What?!"

"Nude portraits. Well, actually, nine sketches in charcoals and pastels, and one nude portrait in oils," Sherlock elaborated, after shooting another indignant glare at Lestrade. "She has asked that I retrieve these… items and return them to her, and I intend to do so by any means necessary."

"They're to be auctioned?" John asked.

"Yes. Apparently, from what little information I have been able to glean from the internet, they are to be auctioned at Granville House Tuesday after next. There is no catalog online so far, Greg, so at this point I do not know of these items' estimated value, but I am keeping an eye… I am monitoring… watching. This will be a high-end auction, as these will be the entire collection of Sir David Livingstone-Hayes, so I can only estimate that they will all bring a posh crowd in and they might all realize a rather high sum each."

"Well, then, send one of Mycroft's boys over to snatch them up, if it's that important. She must be high up in the Government, then? Royalty?" John said, sitting back and crossing his knees.

"I will not have Mycroft or his boys looking at nude pictures of M—… of this client. She is a very respectable young woman and has a personal and professional reputation to maintain," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "She is not a very public person, but she is of vital importance to… to… public… safety."

"So… it'll be us… boys?" Lestrade asked.

"And girl!" Mary piped up, grinning. She caught Sherlock's angry scowl and tamped down her laughter. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself. How do I help?"

"I will apprise you of your roles in the coming days. Graham, I will require your presence tomorrow afternoon at Grayson House. In the meantime, I will need to shower and… oh my God, is that vomit on the floor?!"

The next day

"Why the hell am I wearing a posh suit like this?" Lestrade growled at Sherlock, but he was ignored as they marched up the steps to Grayson House and Sherlock rang the bell. They waited. "I feel like a bloody butler!"

"I need you to be a distraction. Turn on the charm, if you've got any." Sherlock straightened his cuffs and forced himself to relax. He had spent the past night going over Sir David Livingstone-Hayes' profile—he was a prolific and talented artist with a knack for painting anything and bringing his subjects to life. Also, for the past four years, his personal assistant had been a Miss Olivia Cowan, late of Mobile, Alabama, a former model and a talented watercolor artist herself.

"And what will you be doing?"

"Well, if I'm lucky, stealing."

Lestrade was about to issue a stream of blistering epithets when the door was opened by a lovely young woman in a pink and white dress. She studied the two men, brow furrowing slightly. "Good afternoon. How can I help you?"

"I'm… uh… er… " Lestrade started.

"He does occasionally remember his name. I'm slightly better at it, though I'm sure he'll come 'round to coherent speech shortly. Sherlock Holmes, ma'am. And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

"Olivia Cowan," she answered. Sherlock took her hand and kissed her fingers, and she looked amused. Lestrade finally recovered himself.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, ma'am. Scotland Yard."

"See? I was right. He does come 'round eventually," Sherlock said. "I'm sure that some day he'll perfect the concept of 'fetch' and 'heel'."

Her eyebrow lifted. "So the famous detective and the… "

"Considerably less famous detective," Sherlock nodded. "What a lovely accent. You are from… ?"

"Mobile, Alabama, sir," she said with a smile. "Are you here on some sort of business? I'm afraid Lady Livingstone-Hayes is napping, poor thing. These past three days have been very trying."

Lestrade was enchanted. He couldn't keep from staring at her—she had silky red hair, amazing green eyes, clear roses-and-cream skin, and a body Venus would kill for. And he had always been a sucker for a Southern drawl. Ever since Andie McDowell in Three Weddings and a Funeral.

"Alabama. Lovely state," Sherlock nodded. "Antebellum mansions, quiet beaches, wonderful seafood, world-class American college football… "

"You've been there?"

"Guide books." He was reading her carefully. Devout Christian. Conservative. Well-educated, well-read, well-informed. Excellent manners, efficient, organized, tough-minded, kind. Perfect posture—attended finishing school. Likes to fish. Expert horsewoman. Prefers to go barefoot. Not a lot of makeup, natural beauty. Extremely old Southern family. Member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Roughly thirty years old, never married, youngest of four or five children. Knows art and music. Silver bracelet—rarely removed, so clearly a gift from a loved one who died long ago. Proficient pianist. Has a right hook like a cannonball.

She looked amused. "So I'm only assuming you're here to look over some of the items that will be offered at Granville House?" she asked, stepping aside and letting the two men in. "We're still in the process of cataloging, I'm afraid. Everything's scattered about the place, and I just got back from Rome an hour ago and am quite tired of having my bum pinched, though I should say the food was wonderful."

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, who was still staring at Olivia, who was definitely glomming on him. "Yes," Sherlock said, surprised to see that the woman found Lestrade rather satisfactory, though he really couldn't understand why. "I have always admired Sir David's works and am shamelessly using my celebrity to obtain early access to the items being offered."

"You're a celebrity, Mr Holmes? I think you're more notorious. Didn't you fake your own suicide a year or so ago?" she asked, in that I'll-sound-as-sweet-as-honey-while-I-smack-you-with-a-frozen-mackerel accent of hers. Sherlock had heard that Southern belles were bulldozers in organza and kidgloves. She certainly didn't seem to be at all intimidated by him. Her ancestors had survived Reconstruction, carpetbaggers and Hare Krishnas taking over the plantation houses, and she had obviously survived her own troubles.

"Necessity does breed… er… "

"Deception?" she smiled. "Of course, I understand it was all for a particular cause. I've heard about that Moriarty fellow. Back home we'd say he needed killin'. Just too bad he isn't actually dead."

"Ah. Yes. Well… "

"I've lived here in England almost five years now. Aside from the inevitable weight-loss, I've kept up with the local chatter." She smiled at him. "But I don't mind you looking through the items. There's many downstairs."

"Thank you. Gr… eg is actually the one who is interested in picking something out. A gift for his wife."

"Ex-wife," Lestrade said quickly, never taking his eyes off Olivia, and Sherlock was surprised to see that she didn't look any more pleased to hear he was divorced. "My wife… er… "

"Left him. Cheated on him, the cruel… harpy," Sherlock said, deciding that in her sincerely held religious convictions, she might not have such a lax attitude toward divorce. "Marriage is over and done, and Inspector Lestrade was the innocent party, but her birthday is coming up and he wants to get her something extremely valuable that she will have to insure and be terrified of damaging for the rest of her life and could never sell at current value. He can't afford to buy her a house, after all, on his rather meager salary."

Lestrade glared at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows. Olivia's expression softened just a bit, and Sherlock waited until her back was to him again before he gave the detective a 'thumbs up' and a grin. Lestrade offered Olivia his arm, and she smiled and accepted, linking her arm through his. They strolled easily down the marble hallway, chatting amiably, and Sherlock trailed slowly behind them, scanning each picture on the wall. He recognized none of the naked women in the paintings, and when Lestrade and Olivia turned a corner he backtracked and trotted up the stairs.

"I swear to God, I nearly pissed myself," Lestrade said, watching as Molly carefully sliced up a brain. "He was upstairs somewhere, doing God knows what, and then suddenly a car alarm outside went off and he comes flying down the stairs and is out the door before I could even get that woman's number."

She looked up at him. "What woman?"

"Haven't you been listening?" he asked. He couldn't bear to look at the dissection of the brain anymore and turned away to look toward the countertop, but winced when he saw a set of shriveled, chopped-off fingers sitting on a set of scales. "Sherlock—he was upstairs at that artist's house, snooping around, trying to find a painting and some drawings. I don't know if he found them, but he hasn't said a word to me so far. Just demanded I drive him back to Baker Street and give him a sedative."

Molly turned around and looked Lestrade, but her back was still to him. "What?"

"Yeah. We were at that place in Knightsbridge. Sir David Livingstone-Hayes. Holmes got me to distract that pretty Southern bird—Olivia's her name—and he went skulking about upstairs. He wouldn't say if he saw the pic—"

Molly slammed her dissecting knife down and whirled around to face Lestrade full-on. "He did what?!"

"I just told you."

To say that Molly was furious was an understatement. Besides that, she was very close to a very sharp knife, and Lestrade took a careful step to the side, not wanting to be too obvious, but she had a look of murderous chaos on her face that put fear in his heart. He had faced down murderers, rapists and children having tantrums in grocery stores and this was downright terrifying.

"That bloody arsehole!" she snarled. "I'll kill him!"

"Now, Molly, murder is not advisable. I've wanted to kill him a few times myself and where are you going?" he called, but she was already pulling off her labcoat and storming out of the room, yanking the door open so roughly that she nearly tore it off its hinges. Lestrade stood there a moment, looking at the brain before blinking and shaking his head.

"Well. Better you than me, mate."

"A car alarm? You are joking, right?" John asked, trying desperately to keep from laughing. The image was just too much to even think about—Sherlock Holmes, freaking out over a car alarm. Honestly, he wished he had been there.

"I pulled a closet door open and suddenly WEE-OO WEE-OO WEE-OO WEE-OO! I nearly had a heart attack! I couldn't find an off-switch and decided it wasn't prudent to stay there any longer." Sherlock was pacing up and down, still looking manic. "It was only when we got outside that I saw it was a bloody car alarm. What's worse, I didn't even see the portrait or the sketches… I… I mean, I didn't see the… I didn't find them!"

"This Very Important Woman… you're not going to tell me who she is?"

"Certainly not. It would be… indiscreet. The fewer people who know of this situation, the better."

"I see." John shook his head. "So what are you going to try next?"

"I guess we'll have to get Mycroft to send some of his boys to the auction and… purchase the portrait and the sketches." He stopped, clearing his throat. "No, I'll go to the auction and buy them. I don't want Mycroft involved." His eyes narrowed as he looked out the window. Mycroft barely knew Molly and was always polite to her, but he didn't want his brother knowing her that much better. Polite honorifics and seeing to her continued employment at St. Bart's was the proper extent of Mycroft's association with Molly Hooper, so far as Sherlock was concerned.

"Livingstone-Hayes' stuff is pricey," John pointed out. "Sure you can afford it?"

"I'll do what's necessary."

"Well, I did suggest you call in a marker from Mycroft," John told him. "If this woman is high up in the government and has a reputation, then..."

"You bloody tosser! You stupid, stupid oaf!" Molly shouted at Sherlock as she stormed into the room. He recoiled and actually took a step back, almost knocking himself down onto the couch.

"Sherlock, I believe you have company," John said with a smile, not even turning to look to see who had come in. It could be anybody.

"Now wait a minute here… " Sherlock began, quickly regaining his composure. "Molly, calm down, let me explai—"

Molly went around John, barely even acknowledging him. "Explain? I tell you something in strictest confide—"

"For God's sake, Molly, shut up and sit down. John, please leave."

Watson stared at his friend, bewildered, then looked at Molly, who was still standing, hands on her hips, pure mayhem in her eyes. For some reason, the sight of her looking ready to lay into Sherlock Holmes reminded him of a tiny bantam hen taking on a regulation size fighting cockerel and giving him what-for. Feathers flying. Squawks of pain. Quite a sight to see.

He had no doubt that little Molly could do some damage. He suspected she wasn't above fighting very, very dirty.

"All right. Leaving. Call me when you come up with your next plan for this Very Important Person. Er… Molly, would you like some tea? No? Okay. See-you-'round-have-a-lovely-day-bye!" John was happy to bow out and hope that Mrs Hudson would overhear some of this conversation and report it, blow for blow. He quit the room, closing the door behind him. Molly didn't even glance away from Sherlock, but continued to glare at him.

"How dare you! How dare you involve anyone else! I came to you thinking that perhaps—just once—you might behave like a human being and not some bloody emotion-free robot and help a friend, but apparently I never was all that important to you, was I? Just good little Molly, the wallflower, ready to fall over herself to get you your bloody coffee, you heartless, selfish, arrogant bastard!" She stamped her foot, tiny fists clenched, and Sherlock was glad he wasn't close enough for her to kick. He knew she would bring him down like a sack of wheat.

"Are you finished?" he asked mildly.

"Not half!" she shouted.

"Well, now that you need to catch your breath I should point out that I never told anyone your name with regard to this particular case and your naked misadventures. I informed them instead that a rather important person had hired me to retrieve a few somewhat compromising pictures by any means necessary."

"Am I supposed to bel—wait, what? You didn't… " She shook her head. "Important? I'm… important?"

"I suppose there is no such thing, really, as consulting detective-client confidentiality laws of any kind, but I personally do not discuss such matters with anyone without the express consent of said client, and since at no point did you indicate such consent had been given, and since our consultation was without John or anyone else present, I gathered that you wished for me to be discreet."

She exhaled, slowly, then finally sat. He talked like that when he was being evasive, she knew.

He sat down again. "And by the way, at our last meeting, when I rushed away to throw up, it was not because… it was not because of anything you had said. It was because I had some sort of hideous Oriental parasite building a pagoda in my stomach lining. But that has been, for the most part, cleared away and so now we can discuss the details of this case and arrive at a satisfactory solution."

"I can't hire you."

"True. You can't afford me."

She blushed and looked down at her hands, which were still balled up into fists. "But if you were to at least obtain the pictures, I could pay you back in time. I don't know how much they'll realize at the auction, but… "

"Far more than you could afford to repay in your lifetime, and you needn't worry about such things."

"But Sherlock… "

"I don't mind doing pro bono work at times. Keeps me sharp and makes me mind the bank balance. And by the way, how did you find out I had spoken to anyone on the matter?"

"Greg came to see me and told me about… your little stunt at Greyson House. You… became somewhat rattled by a car alarm."

He frowned at her, making a mental note to poison Lestrade, but he had to admit that the situation had been rather… humorous, now that his heartbeat had returned to normal. "I went snooping about upstairs while Graham… "

"Greg."

"…chatted up some admittedly rather charming American woman. I searched through a couple of rooms full of paintings and finally came across a closet. Just as I opened the door, some bloody alarm started blaring and I couldn't find the button to switch it off." He looked a little chagrined. "Got a bit… "

"Freaked?"

"I don't care for that term. Disconcerted would be a better description."

"And so you ran down the stairs yelling for Greg to run?"

"I may have mentioned to him, in a totally relaxed and very offhand manner that we needed to leave."

"While casually strolling down the stairs."

"Lighting my pipe and checking the Racing Post, yes. I can assure you, I was in no hurry. Once Lestrade and I were outside again and noted that the alarm was actually from a car, I very serenely hailed a taxi, went home, watched an episode of Frasier on Netflix and took a nap."

She giggled and Sherlock had to bite back a grin. Looking back at the whole rather embarrassing affair, he had to admit, it was rather amusing. Besides, seeing Molly Hooper sitting there, laughing heartily and not angry at him anymore, made him feel…

Well, it made him feel…

Rather…

All right. Fine. It made him feel good.

He had always liked to see her smile. Almost as much as he liked seeing fire in her eyes. But yes, her smile was something to look forward to, every day.

The next day

John pushed the door open very carefully and was relieved to see Sherlock sitting at his desk, face lit by his laptop, but he wasn't reading. Instead, he was staring into space, thinking. "Bloody mind palace," John muttered.

"I've got a good bit of money, you know," Sherlock said, out of nowhere.

"Yes, and that makes me feel so much better about my mortgage."

"But do I have enough money to buy… "

"I'm sure you do. Or you sound like you do."

John sat down, sorting through the mail. Holmes never bothered. It was Watson who made out the cheques and settled all debts for Sherlock, because the man thought nothing of such things. John knew his friend did indeed have a nice lump of tin in the bank, and was not an extravagant spender. In fact, he tended to be a tad… thrifty. Well, actually, cheap. Considering he never remembered to buy groceries and supplies of any kind, it was a wonder he ever had clean clothes, dishes or food in the flat. Heads and other body parts in the refrigerator, however, were regularly to be found. He knew never to just grab a beer bottle and take a swig, because it might contain fluids one didn't commonly drink unless one was in a desert and under severe duress.

"I do. I might need a loan, though."

"Talk to Mycroft."

"I would never."

"Then I guess you'll have to empty your account. What's the woman's name?"

"Bugger off."

John smiled. "Not a pretty name. Member of the Birmingham Buggeroff family?" At Sherlock's scowl, he grinned. "Someone I know?"

Sherlock's expression clouded and he stared at the screen. "Granville House is a Grade One stately home. Home of the Marquess of Canton."

"Mm?" John blinked, not sure what Sherlock was talking about, but he was sure his friend would get to it. He picked up the paper, shuffling to the sporting section.

"Frequently used as an auction venue. High end stuff." Sherlock was clicking on his mouse, clearly searching. He rubbed his eyes and slapped the laptop shut. "I'm going out."

"Ah, the nude portraits are being sold there, I'm guessing. Nude portraits of someone I may or may not know. Ex-girlfriend?"

"Mine or yours?"

John glanced up at his friend, who was pulling on his scarf and Belstaff. Sherlock looked away, still distracted.

"You need me to tag along?"

"No."

Sherlock paced out the door, an intent expression on his face. John sighed and resumed reading his paper, glancing over at the laptop. If Sherlock were agitated enough, he might have forgotten to lock the laptop. A few clicks and John figured he might know the identity of the woman in question. But as soon as he started to stand up, he decided he had better stay off it for now. If and when Sherlock wanted to reveal the information, he would, and if Sherlock was as protective of the client as he seemed to be, then it was for a reason.