It was those two words that John feared, that passed Sherlock's lips that morning.

"I'm bored."

John sighed, putting down his newspaper and facing Sherlock, who was playing with a revolver. He knew that it wouldn't be long until the wall had some fresh holes, courtesy of the Consulting Detective. "I thought you had a case?"

"I'm waiting for Molly to do the post mortems. Until then, I'm stuck," he muttered, his finger moving closer to the gun trigger.

"Well go over to the morgue, see if she's finished," John suggested, hoping that he would not have to fill in any more holes in the wall.

"She won't reply to her texts or answer her phone, John. I don't even know if she's working. I don't want to go over there for no reason, I have other things to do," Sherlock announced.

"Then do those other things!" John rolled his eyes, picking his paper back up again.

For someone so smart, he could be so naïve.

Sherlock left the room and went upstairs to think, gun still in hand. He needed the results on these bodies to be able to continue with the case, as he had already done all of the additional research. What was taking Molly so long? And why wasn't she answering her phone? It had been two days now. Usually she replied straight away, due to her obvious crush on the dark haired detective. It had been weeks since he had last seen her, so he had not spoken to her in person for a while, and had no idea what other plans she had. Maybe she was on holiday? Unlikely. Not at this time of year. Plus she was alone, and they don't let you take cats on planes.

Deciding to try her phone one last time, he waited patiently until it rang out, asking him to leave a message. It was definitely switched on, but Molly didn't have it with her. Or she was unable to answer it. There was only one thing he could do; pay a visit to St. Barts.

Wrapping his blue scarf around his neck and pulling his black coat on, he opened the front door, not bothering to say goodbye to John. "Where are you off to?" He heard him ask, and replied with only one word.

"Morgue."

The taxi only took a few minutes, and soon he was at the hospital. He marched down to Molly's lab, with no idea whether she would actually be there. Maybe she was sick, maybe that was why she wasn't answering her phone. It made sense, but somehow it seemed wrong. It was not like Molly.

Sherlock pushed open the door and walked inside the lab. It was completely empty, except the body bags and microscopes. No sign of anyone at all. Still, it as best to check. "Molly?" He called out, walking around in a circle, as if she would appear from under a desk.

There was no reply, as he had expected, but he was still confused. Was she at home? Something told him that she wasn't. She was eager to help him with the bodies, so she would have done them as soon as possible. It was all too obvious. She had to be here somewhere.

He wandered around the lab, picking up things to examine them, hoping that they would show some signs of where Molly might be, or what she had been up to. After a quick scan of the room, he noticed the jars of chemicals, which were usually in a neat line, knocked over; not broken, but out of place. Something nobody but himself would have noticed. Or possible Molly.

Signs of a struggle, possibly. Unlikely that it was carelessness. Or someone else had been in here since Molly. Or at the same time.

There was also an empty syringe that had not been cleaned since its last use. Molly would not allow dirty equipment to be left out. It must have been someone else. The syringe itself was next to a body bag, which was also right by the knocked over chemicals. Maybe there was a connection between this dead body and Molly's absence. It was worth a shot, anyway. Slowly, Sherlock unzipped the bag, used to the sight of dead bodies. As soon as the zip was open, he peered inside, unsure of who might be there.

And not for one moment, did he expect it to be Molly Hooper.