[This chapter is probably a little pointless, but I feel there might be some points of relevance in this, LOL. The idea I have for this fanfiction is still a little vague, it might not work how I want it to, I'm not sure yet. Anyway, hope you enjoy. Rate and review. Constructive criticism is welcome. ]

Jim was now back in the IT room, where the computers were lined in six separate rows, and cabinets at one side of the room containing folders, books, other files filled out the space; space which was hardly used. The walls were coated in a baby blue coloured paint, helping to create a cool and calm atmosphere. It was quiet, too quiet for Jim's liking. A few of his fellow colleagues had smiled at him when he made his return, but said nothing, getting on with their work.

Jim had seated himself back at his own computer, sighing to himself as he leaned back in the chair. It was the type of chair that spun around full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, and you could glide across the room at high speed on its wheels. And the ones that could go up and down when you pulled the lever underneath, giving you hours of relentless fun.

His eyes scanned the screen in front of him. The blog of John Watson, companion to the elusive detective, opened up on one of the tabs. He had been reading the man's blog, along with 'The Science of Deduction' by Holmes, since he'd discovered the two of them a while ago, thanks to a reliable source. As he sat there, he allowed himself to read the latest blog entry, 'The Blind Banker' (a case that he had helped ensure, little to the detective's knowledge), chuckling quietly to himself when he should have been working.

Working. In this case, it was a word he disliked. Greatly. This job, working in IT at Bart's, was boring, uneventful, drab, ordinary... The list of words he'd had parading in his mind to describe this job was endless. It was for ordinary people with ordinary lives, those with families that needed looking after and friends that needed their help, bills that needed paying. The kind of life that sickened him and he couldn't imagine living. The money wasn't that good. He could earn a lot more than this being the consulting criminal that he really was.

He didn't concern himself with the ordinary life. There was nothing more boring than being ordinary, which was what he was doing. Pretending to be an ordinary young man. But he had to stick it out, thanks to his obsession, just so he could get closer to Sherlock Holmes.

And he was close, he was so very close. The hospital was a place that Holmes, along with Watson, visited often, so he had been told, thanks to another one of his reliable sources in his criminal network, which was dotted around London. Jim wasn't entirely sure where it was Holmes went to when he came here, but it didn't take him long to figure it out, not after he'd met Molly, who worked in the morgue. The morgue seemed like the obvious place Holmes would be, examining the bodies of those who had died suspiciously, those who were connected to the case he was involved in.

Molly, she seemed nice. His thoughts instantly stretched to Molly. It hadn't been his intention to bump into her that was completely by accident but he couldn't deny that it could work to his advantage. She was kind, so innocent, so timid, the type who found it hard to say no, the type who could easily swayed into giving him what he wanted, even if she didn't know about it. She could get him access to Sherlock without knowing she was doing it. It wouldn't be too hard, not for him, he was good at manipulation and pretending, he'd had years and years of practice.

It sounded wrong to use someone's good nature for nothing more that a twisted game. Taking advantage of someone as kind as Molly just to get to a man he'd never met before. However, he couldn't see any other way at the time. Besides, when did Jim Moriarty ever put other people's feelings into consideration?

Molly's shift had ended sooner than she first thought. What seemed to look like a long day turned out to fly by in a matter of hours.

Lestrade was there at the morgue when she had got back from her lunch break, patiently waiting outside, along with Sherlock and John.

"Ah, Molly, there you are!" Sherlock piped up, stepping forward with his huge feet, a smile gracing his lips.

Molly stopped and latched her gaze onto the tall male. "Oh... Hello. I didn't expect you to be here..." She smiled vaguely, letting her gaze switch to Lestrade and John, who were stood awkwardly behind the consulting detective.

The greying detective inspector began to explain why they were here, even if it was clearly obvious why, only to be silenced by Sherlock asking if she had a Mr Tim Byron on her list. She fiddled with her fingers instinctively as she listened, giving a small nod of her head, before Lestrade and Sherlock started a minor disagreement.

"I'll have a look," she replied, heading into the morgue to check her list that was only a few pieces of paper secured by a clip board. Naturally, she was followed by the three older men.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock told her. "Though, do hurry. It is a rather urgent case."

"It's not that urgent," Lestrade interrupted. "We're not in any rush."

"Are you still here?"

The detective inspector looked a little annoyed with Sherlock's interjection. A sigh that escaped from his lips indicated his annoyance. "Technically, this isn't your case." He buried his hands into his coat pocket, glancing over at John, who hadn't said much since they arrived.

A smirk twitched at Sherlock's lips upon hearing Lestrade's comment. "No, but you need me." His tone was sharp and matched the stern expression he had written on his features and icy blue eyes.

"Alright, girls..." John interjected, silencing the pair before they turned the conversation into an argument.

Once Molly had checked her list, she gave them access to the body that had been stored away for no less than a few hours. It was fresh, the skin still soft in places, and the colour only just draining from the man's body. She watched from the side-lines as Sherlock examined the body in close detail, picking up on the small things that no-one else could, the tiniest clue that could help find the cause of his death. He muttered what he'd found as he went long, giving Lestrade and John points to write down in case they needed anything later on in the case. She stayed silent, avoided conversation by busying herself with paperwork that never seemed to end, and only listened to the discussion that was being carried out by the three men. However, she began to drift off into her own little world, meandering through her thoughts, in and out, in and out, over and over.

"You look alarmingly cheerful, Molly. I assume that has something to do with a nice man you met at lunch today. Am I wrong?"

Almost immediately, she snapped out of her thoughts, seeing the tall figure of Sherlock in front of the desk she was sat at. Glancing at the clock to the side of her, she realised that an hour had gone by, when it had only felt like five minutes.

"Here we go again..." John sighed, appearing by the detective's side, arms folded across his chest. "Do you ever take a day off?"

"What makes you say that...?" she questioned, surprise painted on her face. She shouldn't be surprised, not with Sherlock. Nothing ever got past him, he noticed everything. Even the smallest of things. How he worked it out was beyond her but she knew that any minute now he was about to explain how he knew that she'd met the nice man, Jim, at lunch.

"It's not hard to work out. You haven't stopped smiling since I've seen you. You were rather happy when I saw you walking down the corridor by yourself. You had that look that someone only ever has when they've been with someone they like. You've also been rather quieter than usual, sitting here, obviously thinking about that earlier event. That, plus the fact that you just blushed when I suggested the nice man in the first place."

Molly smiled at that thought as she entered the hallway to her flat, Toby, her cat, coming to greet her with a soft mewing sound while brushing himself against her leg. Leaning down, she stroked him, that content smile still resting on her thin lips.

Slipping off her coat, she then switched on the light as she walked into the living room. It was all cosy and warm with a welcoming feeling in the atmosphere. It was definitely Molly's home; pink was a re-occurring thing, with cushions, curtains, picture frames and a coffee mug on the coffee table coated in the bright colour. The picture frames held photographs of her and her few friends from high school, and family, too. Most of them, though, were of Toby. She loved Toby like a child loved their teddy bear.

As she slumped down on the sofa, curling up, allowing her body to sink into the material, she began to eat the crisps she had purchased from earlier in the day. She had totally forgotten about them until she heard the packet crumple in the pocket of her lab coat when she took it off before leaving the morgue. She wasn't going to waste them.

Toby had clambered up onto the sofa with her and was now strolling about onto her of her until he found a resting spot situated in the corner of the couch.

Molly watched her pet calmly, savouring the taste of the light snack as she chewed them thoughtfully.

She contemplated on Sherlock's words for a while. Nice man. Jim was a nice man. A very nice man, so she thought. She didn't meet nice men that often. Nice men were hard to find. Nice men were never interested in nice Molly. Jim was stuck in her head; his smile, his chocolate brown eyes, his lean figure, his accent. Oh, his accent. It was so soft it could melt even the hardest of metals. He had brought her coffee; no-one else would have done that. At least, she didn't think so anyway. It was a friendly gesture he had given her, offering to get her another coffee, it was rare that happened to her.

I shouldn't get ahead of myself, she told herself in her head. I don't know him that well. He probably doesn't even like me that much anyway. He was probably only being nice to me to stop him from getting angry at me spilling coffee down him. We probably won't even see each other again.

Yet, she didn't see them being anything other than friends. Relationships weren't really her thing anymore. She'd tried, and failed, at a relationship several times, and had eventually given up all hope of finding Mr Right. Friends were something Molly only ever wanted, and if Jim could be her friend, well, and then she was cool with that.