Swaplock : (swop - lok) An AU story in which the roles and personalities of Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes (along with supporting cast) are reversed. Yeah, things are about to get weird.

Enjoy!

Molly Hooper awoke with a splitting headache. That was the first clue she got to tell her that this was going to be a ruddy awful day. She hated getting her migraines. Hated them! With her head pounding and her vision blurring her mind became a bog and she lost the ability to think. Thinking was Molly's life. If she couldn't force her mind to focus and think, then what good was she?

Groaning, Molly rolled over in her bed and buried herself further under her duvet. Gritting her teeth she counted to ten and willed the pain away. It didn't work. There was no helping it then. She needed her medication.

The key was getting it in her weakened state. Sally had confiscated the pills after her last migraine, fearfully hiding them away in her lingerie drawer inside an empty box of condoms under her vibrator under the erroneous belief that Molly would never snoop there. Sally was charmingly naive that way. She would need to get out of bed, fetch the pills, and actually read the label this time in order to not repeat her previous error. After all, she had no desire to be rushed to the A&E with another overdose.

Sally hadn't spoken to her in nearly a week after that fiasco and Sherlock and John had been quite cross with her as well. Mycroft had even sent flowers and visited, a situation that could not, under any circumstances, be repeated. It had also been excruciatingly dull in the hospital, the staff banding together to force her to stay in her room with Sally at one point handcuffing her to the hospital bed in order to get her to 'rest.' Granted, she had easily gotten out of the cuffs and snuck down to the lab anyway, but there was no reason to repeat that experiment if she didn't need to.

Sitting up, Molly's head swam and spots floated before her eyes until she laid down again. So much for getting her medication herself, she grumbled and pulled the duvet up over her head. There was only one thing for it.

Taking a deep breathe, Molly screamed Sally's name at the top of her lungs, not even having to pretend to add the hint of desperation. With her head pounding she was fairly desperate already. From the main flat there was a surprised yelp and a loud crash.

To Sally Donovan's credit, it only took her seventeen seconds to rush across the flat and kick in Molly's door. From the audible click of a safety being switched off, the slightly older woman had even remembered to bring along her handgun. Molly smiled slightly, burying her face in her pillow. "Good old Sally," she muttered fondly under her breathe.

"What the hell was that!?" Sally shouted, stepping into the room fully. From the slightly breathless tone of her voice Molly knew that she had most likely frightened her flatmate quite severely. Her breathing was slightly elevated and previous experience told her that Sally's pupils would be dilated and her face would be flushed. Sally always chose 'fight' when it came to the fight-or-flight response, something that had come in handy many times in the past. "Why did you scream?"

"My head hurts," Molly muttered up from under her blankets. "Fetch me my medication."

There was a long silence. Molly knew that Sally had finished inspecting her room, but was still having trouble lowering her weapon despite the obvious lack of danger. "You what now?"

"Head hurts. Medication, fetch it," Molly said shortly, pulling down her duvet enough to meet Sally's glare.

"I can't believe you," Sally growled, finally lowering her gun and clicking the safety back on. "Did you honestly scream bloody fukkin murder just so I would come in here and play nursemaid for you?"

She didn't know why Sally expected an answer to that question. The answer was obvious. "My medication," she said, rolling over and pulling her duvet tightly around her shoulders. "Please," she added as an afterthought.

"I am not your bloody mother!" Sally shouted. She stomped from the room, slamming the door shut behind her with enough force to knock Molly's framed picture of her receiving a medal from the Lord Mayor of London. It crashed to the ground, but didn't break.

Sighing in annoyance, Molly nestled down further into her blankets and wondered why Sally always insisted on being so overly dramatic. Honestly, what sort of behavior was that for a Detective Sargent? She was always chasing Molly about shouting about this law or that regulation or how you had to have a search warrant before breaking into a property and, oh by the way, breaking and entering has suddenly become illegal as well. Sometimes Molly truly wondered why she put up with her flatmate's ridiculous antics at all.

However, then there were other times when Sally was really quite useful. Like when there was shopping to be done or when her mobile bill was due to be paid. Sally had long ago given up on expecting Molly to do any of that for herself which was really for the best in the long run. Also, for all her blustering and protests, Sally couldn't bear to see another person in pain as evidenced by the sound of returning footsteps.

"Next time, give a shout like a normal person," Sally said crossly, sitting down on the bed with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She handed them over, eyes crinkled in concern as she watched Molly sit up long enough to swallow the pill and drink the water before collapsing back again. "You alright there?"

"Eventually," Molly sighed, pulling the duvet back over her head once more. Her eyes slowly began to drift shut. Ordinarily, she wasn't one for sleep, but with her head like this sometimes sleep was the best option.

Sally sighed and gently patted her shoulder. "I'll text Anderson back and tell him we'll be in later then."

"Hmmm?"

"Anderson texted with a case. Something about two identical bodies when they had no record of a twin. But with you feeling poorly I'll tell him we'll be there in a couple of hours when you're feeling better."

Casting aside her blankets, Molly leapt from her bed and threw the doors to her wardrobe open wide. "Don't be ridiculous, Sally," she said brightly, hauling out the first blouse and cardigan she laid eyes on. "A case is just what I need! Besides, if I leave it who knows what sort of mess your stupid colleges at the Yard will make of it. Do we need a repeat of the Spotted Brunette incident? I think not!"

Sally turned aside slightly, rolling her eyes as Molly stripped down as if she wasn't even in the room. Molly truly was an odd one. Sometimes embodying Victorian prudery with her ideas of courtship – Molly certainly didn't approve that she was dating Anderson when his divorce hadn't been finalized– and other times so blasé about things it was surprising that she could still be a virgin. Well, probably a virgin. Most likely a virgin. She hadn't ever managed to get a full account of the whole 'Jim' thing from her after all. Now that case had been an odd one.

"Coming?" Molly asked, breaking into Sally's thoughts.

Sally eyed her now dressed flatmate and sighed in practiced disappointment. "Must you always dress like a hobo?"

Molly frowned, her nose wrinkling as she pulled on her green wool jacket and wound her scarf around her neck. "My clothing is comfortable, practical, and easy to run in." The slightly confused yet defensive tone was one she often used with Sally. "What should it matter what it looks like?"

Following her, Sally grabbed her own coat from the peg by the door, shrugging it on as they hurried down the stairs. "It just might be nice if, for one, you dressed up a bit, that's all." Molly was ignoring her, focusing on hailing a cab down so Sally pressed on. "Sherlock might appreciate it if you do."

Molly blinked at her flatmate, utter confusion evident on her face. "Why would Sherlock care how I dressed?" she asked, clearly baffled. She dismissed the matter before Sally could reply as just then a cab pulled up. "St Bart's," Molly ordered, leaping into the cab and scooting over so Sally could follow. "The game is on."

SH-MH-SH-MH-SH

Sherlock Holmes awoke with a headache. Issues such as that was the precise reason he detested sleep. While he understood analytically that sleep was a vital process, he loathed the loss of control that it brought. Headaches were just the sort of thing his conscious mind forbade making the pounding between his ears that much more frustrating.

Pushing the pain to the back of his mind he began his customary morning routine. Snatching up his mobile he checked his email – boring, boring, dull, spam – checked the comments on his blog – fawning fans and no case over a three – and scanned the morning headlines – honestly, how did normal people find 'celebrity' babies so fascinating?–

Nothing.

By now John was up. He could hear the army doctor puttering around the kitchen – obviously hungover, his date must have gone better than expected – and the smell of frying beans was in the air. Sherlock considered breakfast than instantly dismissed it. He'd had dinner on Wednesday. That should hold him until tomorrow at least.

With no cases to be found he'd be forced to find other amusements today. He supposed that he was behind on transcribing his latest violin concerto from the concert hall of his mind palace onto paper. And his homeless network could always use a little maintenance. His informants could use paying, the bow of his violin could be rosined, there were experiments at Bart's he could look in on-

His mobile rang, the first notes of Lestrade's ringtone playing as he snatched it up and hit the 'Talk' button, grinning widely. "Lestrade," he greeted coolly. "What do you have for me today?

SH-MH-SH-MH-SH

If any of Mycroft's people had been watching the Baker Street camera feeds they would have noticed something off that morning. At precisely 7:49 AM a jubilant Sherlock Holmes and a cross-looking John Watson exited 221 Baker Street. This in and of itself was not odd. Actually, it was rather the norm.

Grinning like a school boy, Sherlock waved down a cab and eagerly hustled John inside it. If there had been lip readers watching the feed – and usually there was – they would have seen him talking animatedly and quickly about a pair of bodies found with identical fingerprints. He spoke of the statistical impossibilities of such an occurrence and the deliciousness that two people sharing the same fingerprints had been killed in different ways in opposite sides of the city at the same time.

John ignored him and complained bitterly about the beans and toast he was being forced to leave behind.

It was all perfectly normal. In fact, if anyone had been watching, they would have filled out and sent the typical report in – Subject has acquired new case. Contact NSY operatives for further details. – and gone to get tea. It was Friday after all. There should have been fresh bakery biscuits in the break room. They would have completely missed what happened next.

At precisely 7:56 AM a frazzled looking Sherlock Holmes burst out of 221 Baker Street. Toast dangling haphazardly from his mouth, he struggled to get his arms into his coat. A moment later a bemused looking John Watson exited the building, helped Sherlock get his coat all the way on, and handed him his scarf.

Temporarily removing the toast from his mouth, Sherlock thanked his flatmate then set off at a mad dash for the tube station, Belstaff coat flapping wildly behind him as he ran. Back in front of Baker Street, a smiling John went back into his building and emerged a moment later with a happy looking English Bulldog. After a good long walk the two of them went back into the Baker Street house and John exited once more, locking the door securely behind him as he started in the direction of his work.

If any of Mycroft's people had been watching that day quite a different report would have been sent in – Subject exited flat twice and now has dog and oh god, why god how can there be two of them now? – and quite a lot of alarm would have been raised until the report made its way up to Mycroft's desk for him to worry over. Instead, Mycroft's people were entirely too busy watching and worrying over an oddity of their own. The Baker Street feeds would go on being ignored for some time.