Now that Holmes is back from the dead, the criminals seemed to be stunned into silence, leaving him longing for a case. But when St. Bart's is the target of an attack, Sherlock may find himself regretting that wish. Sherlolly, but may not be what you are expecting. Rated T for the language and violence just to be safe.

Written for entertainment purposes only, no monetary reward for doing so and no copyright infringement intended.

A note on the setting: Written during the long wait between the end of Season Two and the beginning of Season Three. It is meant to be consistent with the canon up to this point, with the proviso that it also assumes:

1) Molly was definitely instrumental in helping to make the arrangements that allowed Sherlock to fake his death (definitely implied in the last episode)

2) Moriarty committed suicide up on the roof of St. Bart's (we've been fooled before, but I'll assume that was really him and that he's really dead)

3) Being presumed dead meant that Sherlock had to hide out at Molly's flat for awhile (just because I like the idea)

4) John and Sherlock moved back into Baker Street together when he reappeared

Finally: If Gatiss and Moffat can call their first episode "The Empty Hearse" to play on the original title for the story showing Sherlock's return ('The Empty House'), I am certainly free to call mine:

The Empty Mouse

Chapter one: A Groggy Night In London

John Watson rubbed his eyes and stared blurrily at his wristwatch.

A quarter past midnight.

Raising his eyes to his flatmate, he cursed under his breath, resenting the fact that he had to wait until Sherlock went to bed to take over his position on the couch.

His own bedroom was currently barricaded from the rest of the flat because three days ago he had found a dead mouse in his room, and he had made the mistake of mentioning it to their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. She had immediately become agitated, insisting that there was 'never just one!' A subsequent hunt throughout the house had failed to flush out another rodent, but Mrs. Hudson had decreed they needed to call the exterminators in at once. Calling in a professional service, they had all been forced to vacate the premises for several hours while the traps were put in place. John's room, as the 'hot spot' of the infection, was so filled with traps that it wasn't even safe for him to walk across the floor. Although he thought it was overkill, he secretly had to admit he didn't relish the thought of mice scampering over him while he slept, so he had willingly vacated his bedroom for now. Unfortunately, he also didn't have a current girlfriend to bunk with at the moment, so he was relegated to the couch until his bedroom was fit for human habitation again.

To make things worse, London had been experiencing a stretch of unusually warm weather lately. While this was bad enough, it was made even more difficult to cope with by the fact that it had also been an unusually long time since they had been presented with an actual case.

After Sherlock's return from the dead, there had been a blizzard of publicity accompanied by a flurry of backlogged cases that had taken awhile to get through while providing at least a modicum of interest for his friend. But then the attention had shifted elsewhere, as it always inevitably did. Now, despite the hot weather, the country seemed inexorably gripped in the midst of a non-crime wave. Instead of being goaded into acts of sheer folly and desperation by the sticky, hot weather, people seemed to be lolling around in a stupor. In fact, it had been several days since anyone had even contacted them about a case. Sherlock had turned down their last prospective client before he got six words out of his mouth, claiming that he was unworthy of his attention. Since then, he was alternating between periods of boredom and anger. He spent most of his time in his pajamas, watching crap television, and John could tell he was depressed by the fact that he hardly even bothered to yell at it anymore, just grunting his disapproval every now and then.

That was exactly what he was doing right now, lying on the couch in his pajamas and glaring at the telly, which he had brought over to that side of the room. John had been ignoring the program, only vaguely aware of the rising and falling voices in the background, but now he sat and listened in for a few moments.

"Isn't that one you've watched already?" he finally said.

A long, drawn-out sigh was his only answer.

Shaking his head, John leaned over to switch on his computer. He had found an interesting chat room earlier in the evening, but it seemed that everyone had signed off for the night by now. Switching over to his blog, he checked quickly for messages, but saw that no one had posted anything new for days. Hardly surprising, he thought, given the fact that it seemed like ages since he had had anything worth writing about. Closing the laptop, he sat back in his chair and sighed as well.

/#/#/

On the other side of town, Detective Inspector Lestrade was also awake. He had first welcomed the lack of new cases as a rare opportunity to catch up on his paperwork. But this evening he had finally caught up with the last of his backlogged cases and was finding that he was also hopelessly bored with the current state of affairs. On top of that, he really would have welcomed something to distract his mind from the fact that the next morning he was due in court, to sign the papers finalizing his divorce settlement. He found his eyes continually drifting downward to study his ring finger, the pale circle marking where his ring had been still clearly accentuated against the darker tan of the rest of his flesh.

Yes, although he should be happy about the current lack of crime he had to admit that he would love a good, distracting case at the moment.

/#/#/

In the lab located next to the St. Bart's morgue, Molly Hooper was sitting at the microscope. For the third time in five minutes, she felt herself suddenly jolt back awake after her head had dipped forward and made contact with the eyepieces.

"It has to be the eight days working in a row," she thought, pushing herself away from the bench. "Especially since I had to put in an unexpected double with Barker calling in because she couldn't get her car started."

She shook her head, trying once again in vain to drive away the nagging feeling of grogginess that was slowly but steadily overtaking her. Just a short while ago, she had felt a rush of energy, but now her eyelids were beginning to droop even though she was actually quite interested in the slide she was perusing. Leaning back towards the scope, she tried again to get through a few more fields, but found it impossible to concentrate.

Pushing away from the microscope again, she glanced back at the clock and groaned.

Six more hours to go.

Deciding that she needed an infusion of caffeine in order to stay awake, she bent down to open a drawer and took out her purse, picking out enough change to get a cup of coffee from the cafeteria. Throwing her wallet back in, she hesitated for just a moment before picking up her lipstick. It certainly wouldn't hurt to try and look decent as long as she was headed to a public place, she decided. Getting up, she paused at the small mirror that hung on the wall and colored in her lips. Studying her reflection, she found herself smiling despite her tiredness. This new shade actually looked quite nice and was much more complementary to her skin tone that the other ones she had tried.

With such a nice berry scent as well, she added, taking in a deep breath.

Then her smile faded as a puzzled frown appeared on her face. Despite the rather heavy scent of the lipstick, she was smelling…something else. Turning around, she sniffed the air, trying to decide what it was and where it was coming from. Despite its slightly familiar odor, she couldn't quite place it. Other than to think:

I shouldn't be smelling that.

/#/#/

Back at Baker Street, John was wrinkling his nose as well. But he was quite sure that it was the smell of rotting food. Gazing around the refrigerator, he noted sadly that for once it was not filled with body parts or other disgusting examples of Sherlock's experiments. But that did not, unfortunately, mean that there was anything edible inside of it at the moment.

/#/#/

Lestrade was gazing at the interior of his refrigerator as well. His was nearly empty, containing only a six pack of beer, a carton of milk and a bunch of grapes. He reached for the grapes, but found his hand veering toward the beer instead at the last moment. Shutting the refrigerator door, he went to sit down in the recliner that served as the only piece of furniture in his living room. Reaching over to shut off the ceiling light, he opened the beer, throwing the cap down on the floor before bringing the bottle up to his lips.

/#/#/

John stuffed the wallet in into his back trouser pocket as he walked into the living room, marveling at the fact that, even at this late hour, the streets were so hot he had no need to put a jacket on before venturing out.

"You, uh, staying up for awhile?" he asked, glancing over at Sherlock.

His arms were crossed mutinously over his chest, and he issued a single monosyllable grunt that John took to be an affirmative answer.

"I'm going to step out to get something to eat," he said.

"Speedy's I presume?"

John hesitated for a moment. He had actually been planning on going out to a pub, but the small restaurant that formed most of the lower floor of their building was trying out new hours staying open until one in the morning for the summer. It would be a lot easier and cooler to go there, he supposed.

"Yeah, think I'll just grab a sandwich and come back," he said finally. "You want anything?

"The remote," he said, holding out his hand.

John sighed and shook his head. It was sitting on the other side of the coffee table, but he supposed it was too much effort for Sherlock to lean over one foot to get it.

"Anything else I can get you?" he asked, as he handed it over.

"An interesting case," Sherlock replied.

Shaking his head, John headed downstairs.

For my own sanity, I hope we have one soon, he thought.

/#/#/

Molly stood, staring at the fume hood. The small tin she was looking for was there, right where she remembered leaving it. Reaching in, she grabbed it out and lifted it to her nose. Although the container was safely sealed, she could still make out a bit of its distinctive scent. Holding it away from her, she sniffed the air again.

No, she was definitely smelling it in the air of the lab itself. That was very strange. And potentially deadly. She definitely needed to call someone. Glancing at the phone list, she found herself debating between two numbers.

No need to unnecessarily alarm the whole hospital yet, she thought. Maybe it's just some type of glitch.

Coming to a decision, she picked up the phone and dialed.

/#/#/

Lestrade stared gloomily at the empty bottle. He had drunk half of it in one large gulp and finished off the rest within minutes, and yet he felt even thirstier than before. Setting the empty bottle on the floor beside him, he debated getting up to get another and then decided against it.

No use showing up at the hearing with liquor on my breath.

Pushing his chair back to the full reclining position, he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

/#/#/

John came out of Speedfy's carrying a sandwich in his hand. As he fit the key into the lock, he glanced up and saw that someone had posted a notice about a lost dog on it, holding it in place using the door knocker as Sherlock had done on occasion. He glanced up at the picture in the dim light for just a moment before tearing it down and transferring it into the same hand as his sandwich in order to open the door.

/#/#/

Hearing footsteps out in the hallway, Molly hastily tossed the x-ray cartridge aside in order to hurry over to the door. As she neared it, she could see a familiar silhouette through the pebbled glass.

"Thank you for coming right away," she said, opening up the door. "I'm sure it's nothing, of course, but-"

The man, with a full gas mask over his face, stepped hastily into the lab and closed the door behind him.

"Well, that's a bit much, isn't it?" she giggled.

In a moment, her smile disappeared as the man shoved her roughly back. She stumbled and fell against the counter. She took a moment to steady herself and then suddenly made a diving move across the narrow passageway, bent on pushing the small panic button located underneath the bench on the opposite side. But the man reached out and grabbed her by the arm, wrenching it back with a force that made her wince and cry out in pain. A collection of items in her lab coat pocket fell onto the ground with a great clatter as he spun her around. Pulling her close, his left arm circled around her body, trapping her arms against her side as he raised his right hand to her face, putting a cloth over her mouth and nose. The same sweet, penetrating odor that already permeated the air pushed its way into her nose in sudden rush, the scent becoming overwhelming. She tried her best not to breathe it in, but her exertions already had her gasping for breath and the man's grip remained firm until she had no choice but to breathe it in. In less than a minute, her eyes closed and her struggles ceased. He kept the cloth up to her face for another half minute or so to make sure she was completely under before taking it away. Lowering her to the floor, he picked her up by the feet and began dragging her toward the morgue door.

/#/#/

As he reached the top of the stairs, John finally realized that there was only a lone light on in the hallway, the rest of the flat was completely dark.

Great. Well, at least he's in bed finally.

Going into the living room, John pushed the television back to its usual position, and then went to sit down on the couch, intending to eat his sandwich. But by then his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he realized with a start that Sherlock was still lying on the couch, facing towards the back cushion now.

"What are you doing?" said John, exasperation clear in his voice.

"Trying to sleep," he replied.

"You're going to sleep out here?"

"Obviously."

"Well, then where the hell am I supposed to sleep?"

"My room."

John stood there with his mouth open.

"You wouldn't let me have that room when I was a bloody cripple, but now you'll give it to me? Why?"

"It's cooler out here," replied Sherlock.

"How selfish-

"Yes, it's cooler out here, but my mattress is much more comfortable than this couch, and there's even fresh sheets on the bed. What exactly is your objection?"

"Nothing, I'll go sleep in your room," said John, shaking his head as he headed out of the room.

"But I don't want crumbs in between the sheets, so eat your sandwich first! I have no desire to have a mouse in my room as well."

John wanted to protest, but he had to admit he had been eating a lot of meals in his own room lately. But that was because he was the only one buying or preparing any food lately, and he had gotten sick of Sherlock's constant pilfering.

"Fine," he said, stopping for just a moment to toss the sandwich into the refrigerator.

He stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him and instantly regretting it. There was little enough cross-ventilation in the room as it was, it would have helped to have left it open. But having made the statement of slamming it, he refused to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing he had overreacted.

Mrs. Hudson, despite protesting yet again that she was 'not their housekeeper' had indeed just changed the sheets today, and there was even a fresh pair of Sherlock's fine silk pajamas set out on the cover. For just a moment, he considered nicking the pajama bottoms to wear, but in the end decided it would not be worth the time it would take to roll up the bottom hem so that he wouldn't trip over them. Besides, he decided, it would be cooler just to sleep in his pants.

Stripping down to his underwear and tossing both his clothes and Sherlock's pajamas onto the floor, he threw back all the covers and lay on the bottom sheet. Closing his eyes, he continued to fume for a short time, but then sleep won out and within a few minutes he was snoring loudly.

/#/#/

Outside of St. Bart's a group of janitors were standing just outside the restricted area and smoking.

"Isn't it time to go in yet?" asked one.

"Ah, don't worry about it, mate," said another. "It's too bloody hot to be working anyway. Besides, Roger's got the alarm set on his watch, don't you?"

"Like always," replied Roger.

Hearing a slight squeaking sound behind them, they turned and looked down the street to where a man was pushing a large waste bin in front of him, obviously headed for the huge dumpsters that stood at the back of the hospital complex.

"Most be one of the new 'uns," laughed the first janitor. "Always ambitions those new ones are, never taking a proper break."

"Well, after a year or two on the job, they'll learn it isn't worth it to work so hard," replied the second.

"Especially in heat like this," said Roger.

They chatted on for several more minutes, and then Roger's wristwatch began to chime softly.

"Well, that's it, one o'clock on the dot," he said, tossing down his cigarette.

But before anyone else could say or do anything, there was a huge blast, knocking them to the ground and sending debris flying around and over them.

Roger got to his feet after a few seconds, looking dazed and staring down at the ground as if scared that his cigarette had somehow set off the explosion.

"Christ, what the hell-"

Looking up, he suddenly fell silent as he realized there was a huge, gaping hole in the outer wall of the hospital, with flames licking around the edges of the break. Sirens and internal bells and horns were going off all around them.

Reaching down, he helped the other two janitors get to their feet.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Fine, just got the wind knocked out of me," said one.

"Oh, my god!" cried the other one, raising a shaking hand and pointing in the direction of the rubble that had sailed over their heads and landed behind them.

Roger looked and cried out as well. He could see bare legs sticking out at odd angles out of the pile of concrete and twisted steel.

"It blasted some patients right out of the building!" he cried, as they all hurried over to help.

By this time, there were hospital personnel swarming all over the area, some responding to the alarms and others just fleeing from the damaged building.

A man in scrubs pushed past them and put his hand out to touch a hand that was also sticking out of the rubble.

"Oh, my god!" he cried, as an unattached arm slid out.

Shrieking in shock, he pulled his hand away and the arm dropped down upon the debris-laden sidewalk.

Someone else was further back in the pile of trash, pushing some rocks out of the way and then bending down to place his hand upon what appeared to be a neck.

Roger joined him, ready to help pull more of the rubble off of him.

"Don't bother," said the man, standing back.

"He's already dead?" asked Roger.

"Stone cold he is," the man answered.

Bending down, he thrust his hand through another crevice to touch something else.

"They all are," he commented.

The man who had picked up and dropped the arm bent down to pick it up again.

"Not a drop of blood left in here either!" he exclaimed, looking puzzled.

Roger craned his head to look up at the building again, and then began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" asked one of the others.

"Well, look at what part of the hospital was attacked!" he said, his laughter continuing and threatening to turn hysterical. Pausing to catch his breath, he blurted out: "It's the bloody morgue, you idiots! Of course, they're already dead."

"Christ, you're right," said his friend, starting to laugh in relief as well.

"Well, thank god," said the third, joining them again, "at least that means nobody living was caught in that."

They chuckled together for a few more moments before Roger suddenly stopped, paling again.

"I mean no one would be working there at this time of night, would they?" he asked.

/#/#/

Lestrade's flat was near enough to St. Bart's that the blast had jolted him awake. In an instant, he had leapt up from the chair and raced over to the kitchen and switched on the scanner. Hearing the initial report, he looked sick and then lunged for his cell phone. By the time he picked it up, it was already ringing.

/#/#/

Although he had fallen asleep right away, John's slumber had not been particularly restful. He was having strange, jumbled dreams that combined his time in the army with his work as a detective. Entering a building where a murder had been committed, he was instructed by Lestrade to open up one of the doors. When he did so, he found himself in the middle of an operating suite, with everyone waiting for him to perform the surgery. It had started as a simple appendectomy, but everything turned horrific as he felt his hands begin to shake, the scalpel in his left hand nicking an artery and blood shooting out like a geyser. As he pinched the vessel closed with his fingers, crying for someone to bring four units of blood, STAT, he looked up and realized that his patient was Sherlock, his normally pale face turning even whiter as the blood drained out of him. Sirens and alarms began to sound all around him, filling the room. Looking across the table, he saw Mycroft Holmes shaking his head sadly and marking something off on a clipboard.

"No, it's not fair, let me try again!" he cried, raising his hands and finding the blood spurting all over him, covering him with sticky warm goo.

Suddenly jolted awake, he gasped for breath and realized that the noise were for real and that he was covered in a sheen of warm sweat. It still took him a few minutes to completely shake off the combined drowsiness and residual horror of the dream, but when he did he hurriedly pulled on his trousers before running out into the living room.

Sherlock was off of the couch, hands clasped behind his back as he peered out the window. As John moved to stand beside him, he saw flashing lights running down the streets all around them.

"What's happened?" he said, finally.

"A bomb has gone off. Obviously."

"Obviously," repeated John. "Well, I'm sorry, I was asleep and I didn't hear the explosion."

"I was awake and I didn't hear it," he replied. "We're too far away, apparently. But if you had listened carefully, you would have heard that the first sirens were the distinct sounds of fire engines and police cars, followed by the arrival of at least two bomb squads and ambulances."

John stood still and tried very hard to listen, but it all just seemed like a massive jumble of screeching sounds to him.

"Lots of ambulances?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Massive number of injuries then?" John sighed. "Maybe I'd better go out and see if I can be of assistance."

"I don't think that will be necessary," replied Sherlock. "I do not believe there are many injuries."

"Fatalities then?" asked John, his mind jumping to the next level of tragedy.

"Do you think an ambulance would bother to turn on a siren to transport a dead body?"

John bristled at the exceedingly facetious tone of his friend's voice.

"Well, you said there were lots of ambulances, but now you're claiming that nobody got hurt," he said, sounding frustrated.

"Fine," he added, turning away, "I'm too bloody tired for any of your riddles now. Maybe the news readers will know something."

Sherlock snorted in derision.

"Since when do they know anything? I certainly didn't say that no one was injured."

John made no reply, determined not to satisfy his ego by asking him again to explain what he meant. He searched around the coffee table for a few moments and then turned angrily back to Sherlock.

"Where the hell is the remote?" he asked.

"Oh, while you were out I became rather enraged at the level of idiocy being displayed upon the telly. I'm afraid I threw it out the window," was his cool reply.

"Our remote is sitting out on the street?" John asked.

Shaking his head, he started to storm out of the room.

"Oh, no. It landed squarely on the roof of the number 13 bus as it passed by."

Sherlock paused and drew in a breath and his whole body tensed for a moment as he leaned over to peer down into the street. Wondering what was going on, John hurried back to look out the window as well. But all he could see was a single police car, moving slowly but steadily down the street and travelling away from them.

Standing upright again and continuing on as if there had been no interruption, he remarked: "It was quite a good shot, actually."

"So, our remote's having a merry little ride around London then?

"Of course not, I'm sure it fell off as it made that sharp turn onto Oxford. Rather like Andrew West's body when the train hit the switch."

"Fine, I'll go retrieve it, or find somewhere to buy a universal one or two, in case you decide to make a habit of pitching the remotes out the window," he said.

Turning away again, he made it to the bedroom door before he heard Sherlock call out.

"John!"

"What?" he said angrily, stopping, but not turning back to face him.

"Please don't go."

In an instant, his tone had changed from annoyingly arrogant to poignantly pleading.

He turned back to look at him. Sherlock was still at the window, but his shoulders were now curiously slumped.

"Lestrade is here," he said, in a voice so soft that John could barely hear him.

John looked completely bewildered.

After all these weeks of having nothing to do, I would think you'd be pleased to see him, he thought.

"Please go let him in," Sherlock said.

This was said in more of his usual tone of command, but the unusual addition of 'please' still made John feel uneasy.

Tearing down the stairs, he heard him knock before he could reach the lower floor. Reaching out to open the door, he belatedly realized that he was still wearing only his trousers. Opening the door, his apology for his appearance went unspoken as he stared out at Lestrade's exceedingly ashen face.

On the floor above them, Sherlock tied his robe together with the belt and moved slowly to take a seat in his usual chair, templing his fingers in front of his face and staring out into the darkness as he listened to the low rumble of male voices rising from the vestibule. At John's sudden exclamation, immediately hushed, his jaw tightened for a moment and the knuckles of his fingers whitened. Hearing their murmured whispers stop, and the creak of the stairs, he rose and began to walk towards the stairway.

They looked up to see him standing at the top of the stairs, his hands clasped behind him as he stared down at them.

"I need to change first," he said, his voice oddly toneless and clipped. "Please go ahead without us and we will join you shortly."

Lestrade and John shared a single guilty glance.

"You know where we're going?" the policeman finally asked.

He stared down at them again for several seconds before opening his mouth to speak.

"I assume we are going to the morgue at University College Hospital so that I may assist at Molly Hooper's autopsy," he said.

There was the brief hint of a spasm in his left cheek, but otherwise his face remained motionless and unemotional.

"I assume if I were wrong in that assumption, you would have corrected me already," he said, turning away to stride towards the bedroom door.

Pausing with his hand upon the door, they could only see his silhouetted profile.

"Should you have any doubts, Detective Inspector, let me assure you that I am already certain that it was murder."

As Lestrade and John continued to gape at him, he strode into the room and shut the door firmly behind him.