"If he had been dead for as long as we were led to believe, there would be a significant amount of bloating caused by the buildup of hydrogen sulphide, carbon dioxide, and methane. Clearly, his wife is lying. I'd bring her in for questioning if I were you, Lestrade."

Just a few feet away, filling out paper work for her most recent autopsy, Molly couldn't help but wonder how a human being could make the accumulation of gases in a decaying corpse sound sexy.

But of course, if it were possible, Sherlock Holmes would possess the ability.

Molly Hooper wasn't stupid. She knew her obsession with the consulting detective was hopeless and, according to some of her friends, borderline pathetic. But, when the man himself was constantly sneaking up on her to use her lab equipment or "borrow" some poor souls left ear for some ambiguous experiment, she couldn't exactly distance herself from him. Not that she would ever want to do that. Unfortunately for the pathologist, the man in question possessed the trifecta of qualities that made Molly go weak in the knees:

The looks. The brain. And the voice.

Lestrade rolled his eyes but proceeded to call in the request as he walked out of the morgue. Sherlock lingered still examining the body with his magnifying glass.

Molly took a moment to glance over at him. While his ability to look positively fantastic in a suit and to solve crimes with what sometimes seemed like superhuman intelligence were all intriguing, his damn voice had to make the combination irresistible.

She watched him put up his magnifying glass and straighten his coat as he walked toward the door.

She finally let out a broken sign and put her pen down in defeat. She wasn't going to get any more work done this afternoon. She was thoroughly distracted and frustrated.

Molly, you can't keep doing this… She thought to herself as she straightened her back, feeling the muscles ache in protest to the hunched position she had been in for the past two hours.

She found that the more Sherlock appeared at Bart's the more distracted and prone to mistakes she found herself to be in her paperwork. She had to admit it was rather embarrassing that just being in the room with him for a few minutes caused her brain to short circuit except for its ability to weave marvelously detailed, blush-worthy fantasies about a certain tall, dark-haired individual.

She had been replaying one such fantasy, the one that involved her bent over her desk and him wielding his riding crop, when she heard a throat clear behind her.