A/N: Thanks so much for clicking and reading!

GUYS THAT FINALE. HELL. I'M STILL SHAKING TBH. AND THAT MOLLY SCENE – I WAS A BUBBLING MESS ON THE SOFA I TeLL YOU.

*ahem* Anyway... The reviews on "An Ambulance Without Sirens" were so heartwarming (thank you, thank you, thank you) that I've decided to try writing a multi-chapter Sherlolly. I take absolutely no credit for the Swaplock concept, but this is my take on it – although I'll be attempting adding in some mystery as well.

As always, all the sciency stuff is completely made up. Should probably pay attention to those science A Levels at some point. And kudos to who knows where the chapter title comes from.

Note: "UKIP" is a far right political UK party, very anti-immigration and quite racist.

If you could leave a cheeky review I'd be so grateful : they're better than Molly stabbing Tom with a fork.

"My Head Has Thoughts (What A Ridiculous Place To Start)"

Or

"Well, How About My Chest, Or More Specifically, My Heart?"

Everyone knew how it was. The pathologist, usually so at home in her work, so chipper around others, was left wrong footed and uncertain around the detective her heart refused to let go. There were tuts of sympathy, winces of pity at their each interaction. Everyone knew how it was, and everyone wondered why someone as feeling as Molly Hooper had chosen someone as insensitive as Sherlock Holmes to long for.

And then there was a moment, perhaps an ill fated Christmas party, when she understood just how deep, and how hopeless, her true feelings were. She somehow cast him off the pedestal she had placed him on, and their relationship evolved into something much more valuable. A friendship.

Of course, he too eventually realised many things. But before that there were many mistakes, embarrassments and the dull ache of unrequited longing.

Overall, they reasoned – John on a taxi to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson over a cup of tea, Lestrade running up the stairs to stop a theft – she had braved through it rather well, all things considered. God, imagine being infatuated with the most oblivious man in the universe. They all shook their heads.

Imagine said oblivious man having to face it himself, and the pathologist free of all the complications. There would be much more confusion, mess, and indeed amusement for everyone else. In short, he certainly wouldn't deal with it nearly as well.

Now wouldn't that be poetic justice?

The whip whistled through the air until it hit the corpse on the table with a sharp crack. It was swung again, back and forth, back and forth, whistle crack, whistle crack. The actions of a madman executed with precision and purpose, each seemingly violent action being calculated for a specific result. How poetic, he thought drily: a perfect summary of his own character.

Sherlock ceased abruptly as the doors opened, staring fixedly at the corpse with far more attention than it was due. Of course, she was here, though he wished it so desperately otherwise. No: the slow speed with which the heavy doors had swung open indicated that they had received nothing more than a careful, light push, distinct from the aggressive slamming of the other morgue workers. Distinctly her.

Molly called out cheerfully, "So, bad day, was it?"

He barely resisted the corners of his mouth turning upwards, ensuring his head remained put. Fingers strumming across the riding crop, he refused to indulge in conversation, allowing the case to encompass his mind: "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it."

A furtive glance in her direction, "Text me."

"Right, of course it's for a case. What a convenient way to justify – uh – corpse beating therapy." She laughed quietly, and the joy of the sound vibrated through him, seeped into his very skin. The morbidity of her humour repelled some, puzzled others, but had the odd effect of creating this irritating buzz of warmth in his chest.

He opened his notebook quickly, scribbling down the most obvious observations, keeping occupied.

A drawer opened, and she pulled out a couple of instruments. She glanced at Sherlock for a couple of seconds, that being enough for her to determine he was not wholly engaged with the case. Why not? Boredom? It not being more than a 6? Interest in another experiment? – she remained blissfully unaware, in short. Reasoning therefore that he wasn't too preoccupied to entirely shut down conversation, she recalled her weekend experience that she'd been keen to share with a rare individual who'd be interested.

"Went to a pathology conference in Paris. Some really exciting research on the effect of smoking in life on rigor mortis." She began eagerly, slipping her fingers into gloves.

How muscles set after death. Sherlock looked up, interested in spite of himself, and cursed the flood of information entering his brain.

Hair: brown, ponytail – regulations in this area of the morgue – but a couple of tendrils fallen around the sides of her face, need tucking? {Urge to do so, quelled} Further reflection: no need, face framed, a rather tantalising effect – tantalising? Pathetic. Suggests she didn't plan for hair to be tied up – in a hurry then – STOP.

He took a barely perceptible breath, replying casually, "Hmm, what was their reasoning?"

The more she talked about her work, the more confident she became, and it was (admittedly) enjoyable to watch. Her voice became more animated as she explained, "Increased levels of carbon dioxide in the blood caused by smoking stay there for a bit after death. It's a great absorber of heat, and because temperature affects the setting of the muscles after death, you would be able to tell from a corpse's muscles..."

"...whether the person had been smoking during their lifetime." Sherlock finished, his voice exhilarated. His eyes met hers in enthusiasm. The emotion that passed through him, the bright joy of discovery shared, the utter closeness, was so brief yet powerful that he quickly broke eye contact.

"So I suppose someone trying to get away with a secret smoking habit would be caught even in death." She chuckled dryly.

"Well," He glanced at her, unable to resist a boast, "I wouldn't need the muscles to tell. There are all the more obvious signs: in the eyes, teeth..."

There was a pause as she thought on that. Then she looked over at him and raised her eyebrows, said slyly, "Not if the corpse was decapitated."

He couldn't contain a short laugh at that. "Or an extreme acid burn." He added.

"Or a violent fire."

"Or lengthily water submerging."

"Or a bad bash up."

"Or hewed to limb sized pieces."

"So basically," Molly concluded triumphantly, "The research is useful."

Sherlock raised his hands up in a gesture of surrender, "I admit - it may have its benefits."

Her eyes twinkled in merriment. It was refreshing, being able to joke so easily with someone about morbid deaths, without them giving her a slightly perturbed/judgemental/outright terrified look. She gave him a happy smile, then pulled the ever mounting shift of paperwork towards her, beginning to note down the blood test results for the day. This was a task that usually numbed the brain in a way that could give anaesthetics a run for their money, but with Sherlock in the room there was never a dull moment. Her shoulders relaxed as she began to scribble down numbers.

After an easy silence, he looked across at her to ask for the keys to the upstairs lab –

"Lipstick." He blurted. What? Since when did he blurt? She looked up, surprised, and he schooled his expression into its usual unaffected nature. He elaborated steadily, "You weren't wearing lipstick before."

"I—er." She hesitated, but continued quickly, offhandedly, "I refreshed it a bit." That seemed to remind her of something, as a slight flush crept up her neck, and she began quickly gathering up her paperwork her usual messy-neat pile.

Lipstick – pale pink. Emphasises mouth - desirable effect, very... {STOP}.Yet implies delicacy – not wanting to seem too forward. An early interaction with the object of her interest. Confirmation: previous observations on her state of hurry. Their conversation had only been distraction from a pre-determined objective.

He groaned, swatting an invisible fly near his head, trying to dispel such useless information from his mind, but this, along with every single observation he had made about her, was proving increasingly difficult to dislodge.

She fetched the keys he needed, already knowing his work habits. They jingled listlessly from her side for a second, before she stated, "New coffee barista."

"Hm?" He had shrugged on his coat, still engaged in wrestling with his stubbornly resistant mind.

She sighed exasperatedly, "It's irritating when I know you've deduced something about me, so..." His head had turned sharply towards her in surprise, and she continued, slight embarrassment mixed with amusement in her voice, "...he's not so bad looking, so I thought I'd try my luck."

She dropped the keys into his palm, and his fingers closed around them tightly, his knuckles turning white, the cold metal digging into his skin. He amplified the pain, tried to use it to focus his mind, to drown out the unexplainable frustration surging inside of him as she walked away.

Over her shoulder, she called, "I'll grab you a coffee. Black, two sugars?"

A reply was unnecessary: coffee orders had been committed to heart by both of them long ago. As the doors began to swing shut again, the words that wandered out of his mouth to fill the air sounded no different from his usual speech. Yet in his ears they felt so deflated, so resigned, that he cursed inaudibly.

"I'll be upstairs."

This man had certainly caught his attention. His resolute determination to appear ordinary, to suppress that hunger for danger, was interesting to say the least. If nothing else, proving his limp was only psychosomatic would be fun.

"Ah, Molly." He called jovially as she entered, and added as an afterthought in an attempt to justify the liveliness of his tone, "Coffee, thank you."

For of course he had noticed the hastily rubbed off lipstick. All previous romantic interest clearly lost. As she handed him the coffee cup, the heat that passed through seemed to warm every crevice of his skin. Don't ask, don't ask, do not – "What happened to the lipstick?"

Well at least he had managed to keep the triumph out of his voice.

"It wasn't working for me." She grimaced. He heard her mutter, "Bloody UKIP supporter" under her breath as she walked out of the door again, and he fought back a smile.

The first time he meets her, a dead woman lies on a slab. Her hair curls around her face, in ringlets until they reach her shoulders. He catches himself trying to work out what hair product she used to use. God, he's higher than a kite caught in a tornado.

"So how'd she die, then?" The detective inspector's voice cuts across his reverie, impatient and incredulous. "Mycroft Holmes says you can crack the case. Maybe if you do, I won't throw you in jail."

His bloodshot eyes roam across the mostly covered corpse – already eight ideas, but further evidence needed. In frustration, he yells, "How am I supposed to answer that without seeing the whole body? I don't just pluck these things out of thin air!"

His shaking hands run through his hair before falling to his side in a clench. Boring. Boring people. Boring body. Not enough for his racing mind, not enough to quell the urge for another fix. What was Mycroft thinking?

Just before the senior pathologist unveils the rest of the corpse – an action far more fulfilling than the unwrapping of a Christmas present, he thinks –, he feels a soft tug on the sleeve of his hoodie.

Out of sheer disbelief, he doesn't ignore it, but turns around. Nobody has strayed within two feet of him because of the smell, a smell cultivated for that particular purpose – distance. But this woman, a small, hesitant, little thing he must have presumed was part of the furniture – as he does with all those people he has no use for – is nervously but resolutely demanding his attention.

With no attempt at concealing his disdain, he replies tersely, "Yes?"

"Well—er—" With the power of his unflinching gaze directly and fully on her, she begins increasingly fiddling with her sleeves and fixedly staring at a spot behind him, but continues, "She's quite mangled, and –um—I'm not sure how much experience you have with this sort of thing, so..." His eyebrows rise higher and higher, but she finishes determinedly, "This might be a bit of a shock."

There is a tense pause, as he stares at her, almost open mouthed. Lestrade gives him a warning look. Then – he cannot help it – he begins to laugh. Fully and utterly, it echoes around the room of dead bodies, until there is a maniacal edge to it.

Everybody else in the room looks embarrassed, awkward, which just amuses him further, But then the woman flinches, stepping a couple of paces backwards, and somehow that cuts the laughter short.

"Right, well." He snorts, "Mary, isn't it?"

"Molly."

"Well, Martha, I think considering you've just broken up with a boyfriend two weeks after you left the last one, you have body confidence issues – specifically about the size of your breasts – although unfortunately your lack of fashion and taste in your clothing do you no favours there - you live alone with only your cat for company, a diabetic cat at that, and you spend your evenings watching reruns of Jane Austen adaptations, as well as the fact that you referred to a dead body with a personal pronoun, it's not my emotional wellbeing in handling a corpse that you should be concerned about, yes?"

She looks forlorn, her lips press tightly together – he waits for the inevitable storming out of the room, or a choice string of swear words, perhaps a slap (no threat of damage, considering her small frame). But only a barely perceptible, resigned, accepting and (he can scarcely believe it) slightly impressed phrase escapes her.

"OK."

She moves to the back of the room again, and as she passes her senior he gives her a glaring look and hisses something at her.

Lestrade coughs, and announces, "Well if you're done showing off, could we get back to the murder?"

The senior looks apologetic, and removes the sheet quickly. There is a large gash on the leg, which had clearly bled profusely. He looks further, and sees the patch on the upper leg devoid of hair, and the lower half covered in it. Interesting –

Gruffly, Lestrade interjects, "We thought the massive cut was the cause of death, you know, standard blood loss. But then the autopsy report came in, and turns out time of death was way earlier than the time it would've taken for the victim to bleed out."

He rolls his eyes. Unnecessary information. From the way Lestrade crosses his arms and breathes out sharply through his nose, he realises he may have observed that out-loud. No matter.

Pattern of leg hair – victim had been shaving before death [using what? – shaving cream]. Whatever caused the death led to a loss of consciousness first. Caused razor from hand to slip – pattern of the gash accounted for. Loss of consciousness caused by [Brute force? Lack of bruising – dismissed] [Inhalation of toxic gas? Analysis of lungs came up clean – dismissed] Toxic substance diffusing directly into skin – a reaction with the shaving cream with another product on the skin –two products previously harmless but when combined ... theory - promising.

"What medication did she use on her skin?" He demands.

"Steroid cream. For eczema." The senior pathologist replies uncertainly.

"Well, there you have it." He gestures dramatically to the corpse. Bewilderment fills him at the varying degrees of confusion on everybody's faces. Is he just especially high, or are people really this slow?

He explains quickly, impatiently, the words tumbling out like a stampede, unable to keep up with his mind.

"Victim applies steroid cream to skin. Decides to shave, and so piles on the shaving cream. The two substances quickly react to form a toxic product, which diffuses from her skin directly into the bloodstream. Leads to unconsciousness followed by death. When she lost consciousness, the razor slipped from her hand and caused the gash."

"But," The senior splutters, "That can't be – the alcohol in the shaving cream is a primary alcohol, not a secondary one, so it could not have reacted with the benzene rings in the steroid cream to form a toxic product." He draws himself up to his full height, "I tested it myself."

"You've tested it wrong, then." He hisses, stepping forward, glaring back. Lestrade's eyes dart quickly between them. Even though he's dressed like a junkie, is trembling like a junkie, and well – is one, he excludes authority in his very stance, and the tension in the air is palatable between the two men.

It is broken by a soft cough.

"Um," The woman blinks rapidly as all three men stare at her, "I'm sorry –I er—I did some extra chemical analysis of the cream." She adds quickly, stares at the ground, "Just for something to do."

Of course, that was a lie, she knew her senior had made an error, but for once he deigns not to observe out loud, and instead fixes his gaze on her with new found interest.

She continues, growing more confident with each word, "There's a more obscure test, but it does show conclusively that the cream has a secondary alcohol, which means..." Looking up, her eyes meet his, and she nods, "It would have reacted with the eczema medicine to form a toxic product. He's right."

There is a slight wonder in her voice, and for a single moment, she seems to have transcended the events in the room – the way her senior's face is slowly turning red, the security of her job position, the way he himself had insulted her – to study the truths he lays out for her.

"Alright, then." Lestrade says, scratching the back of his head in bewilderment. He glances at him, "If this all checks out-"

"It will."

"Then you'll have just solved us a case we were ready to give up as a lost cause." He mutters disbelievingly, pauses for a moment, then asks, "Do I have your number?"

"No." He walks to the door, smirks and replies, "But I already know yours. I'll be in touch."

And so there, with the dead woman on a slab, he meets her. It is not as though there is any sort of revelation, or epiphany. He doesn't give the hesitant but resolute woman any second thought. He reflects on the surprising fulfilment he feels on solving the case, how for the first time in an age his urge to use has dulled slightly, and many other things she is not included in.

And yet the next time they meet, images rush to his brain on the sight of her. The frayed sleeves of a knitted jumper. A warm yet resolute gaze. A soft tug on his sleeve. And he remembers her name.

He walks away from that first meeting with his mind full of everything but her.

And yet.

And yet.

"I'm not his date!"

Of course the yell was useless, as John soon realised, muttering only a sarcastic, "Thanks." when Angelo placed the romantic candle on the table. He cheerily didn't take the hint, strolling away merrily. Sherlock didn't move his eyes from the window.

After a short discussion on arch enemies, in which ordinary people seemed to have found yet another way to prove how dull they really were, he was rather curious to see the standards John expected his life to meet.

Without any readable change in his expression, he asked, "What do real people have then, in their real lives?" Somehow repeating the word real made it all the more illusory to him, all a show.

"Friends." John stated gradually at first, nodding. He continued more quickly as if checking off a list, "People they know, people they like, people they don't like." A slight pause as he considered, then said quickly, carefully, "Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"As I was saying," His voice was monotonous, "Dull." For it really was. These "requirements" seemed to be listless, one after the other, with no individuality or significance to any of them.

John asked again, "You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

" Girlfriend?" He repeated slowly, drawing out the word.

He pictured the sentimental slog that passed in society for a meaningful romantic relationship: the flowers, the films, the inevitable untidy breakups that clouded the mind, made everything so messy – and that, in his line of work, was often simply another motivation for murder.

Unbidden, forbidden images of her rose to the front of his mind. Nothing romanticised, he had never seen things in rose-tinted colours. The most unflattering jumper: her tugging the ends of it. Awkward chatter to fill silences: new understandings at the end of conversations. Dark circles under the eyes: delicate fingers rubbing them absentmindedly. The confusion in her face at an observation he makes: the wonder in her gaze as he explains it.

No. "Girlfriend" was certainly not what he wanted with her. To label something was to confine it, and these un-catalogued, rebelling emotions she was creating in him were proving extremely resistant to any sort of confinement. Not that he even knew what he wanted with her, not that he wanted anything with her at all.

And so it was with absolute truth he could answer, "No. Not really my area."

"Really?" John leant back in his seat, and decided to bite. "That woman at Barts. Molly."

He didn't move an inch, didn't even blink, just continued to stare out the window, and silently cursed himself for somehow choosing the most observant army doctor in Britain.

"You both seemed pretty friendly." John said matter-of-factly, but desperate to understand the enigma before him, to find a crack.

To discuss the matter was to examine it fully, and Sherlock wished to keep such internal reflection to a bare minimum, especially with the additional emotional assessment of the man before him (who was surprisingly skilled at this – catalogued). For God's sake, there was a murder to focus on.

Impatience crept into his voice, "She supplies me with body parts. Not exactly the stuff of romance."

John chuckled awkwardly, "Alright. Maybe not."

Although his suspicions didn't entirely leave him, he let the matter drop as Sherlock pointed out the taxi pulling up outside the window.

Molly leant against the door to her flat, exhaustion etched on her face.

Her limbs felt heavy, her arms somehow too weary to even lift the key to the lock. She loved her job, loved the way she provided legacies for the ones who couldn't leave them for themselves. But sometimes the long shifts, or perhaps the unchanging route of the walk home, made her feel so unanchored, so unsure of whether she was grasping at all life had to offer, or whether she was letting it pass her by.

Pawing sounds at the door brought a smile to her face, banishing some of the tiredness to the back of her mind. It was always a comfort to know Toby was waiting for her. Her fingers turned the key, and she shuffled in, pausing in the doorway to give him a scratch in that spot behind the ears where cats keep their hearts.

Her smile widened as she remembered Sherlock's oddly childish aversion to cats – she never would have thought him a dog person (an extreme one at that) but on reflection it fitted perfectly.

The man was baffling, a whirlwind almost, with his unkempt hair and his swishing coat and eyes that seemed to be permanently alight. But somehow she understood him entirely, his need for space but company, silence but conversation, because it was a balance she held dear herself.

She had realised that for some reason he had developed the defence mechanism of locking away his emotions, but she had also realised (far more than he had) that those emotions were so powerful in their own way that they could not bear to be neglected. And so finding paths to access them, seeing she had made him feel - even in the smallest of ways - gave her a kind of fulfilment.

He brought something to her in turn. The thrills, the unexpected, the sheer and utter exhilaration of his life: he carried it all with him, always. And being able to share in those experiences, all the times he made her a part of them, was something precious. Their friendship touched a part of her deep within.

She'd wrapped her arms around herself without realising. With a soft smile to herself, she straightened up and ambled to the kitchen to make a cup of tea - after today's experience, coffee was the last thing she wanted. Toby seemed strangely agitated, and she frowned as she heard him meowing urgently at her.

She stopped dead.

The kitchen was before her, the window open, an eerie and cold draft blowing the curtain aside. Everything suddenly seemed so still: the chair at the table, the letters pinned on the wall, the drawers shut closed.

She moved forward in a daze, fingers stretched outwards, until they connected sharply with the countertop. There were no tears, no screams, just a blurred sense of muted horror and – and recognition. Her fingers traced the two words scrawled there, large as life, and as they came away, she registered with dull shock that they too were now covered.

Covered in blood. For that was the sight that met her: her kitchen countertop running red, blood dripping away from the two words that had been painted there in it.

Her hands hung limply at her sides, and she slid against the doorframe, down to the ground. Mute, she slowly mouthed the words again.

Thank you.