Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!

Chapter Eleven

A New Pathologist

For a month, Sherlock refused to do anything and everything, except stare at the picture on his laptop, and play his violin. Always, it was a rendition of the melody he had played for Molly, though with each replay, it turned darker, more violent and depressive.

John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson each took turns visiting him to make sure he was still even alive. To John, he gave a glare, and a simple command "Get. Out." To Lestrade, he gave a "Piss off. I'm not taking cases." Mrs Hudson was the only one who made any progress whatsoever in getting Sherlock to be at least a bit like his old self. He couldn't find it in himself to be angry with her. He accepted whatever tea or food item she brought to him, and she coddled him into eating even the smallest amounts. She was probably the main reason he wasn't falling apart, physically at least.

Mentally, it was clear that Sherlock was in deep pain. Daily, he could be found, simply staring at the corner of his laptop, at the last link to Molly. If anyone even tried to touch his computer, they were glared and deduced into a stupor. No one touched his laptop.

Boredom was what eventually forced him back into the relative land of the living. One day, seemingly out of no where, Sherlock picked up his mobile phone for the first time since that day, and unblocked Lestrade and John's numbers.

Case. I need one now. - SH

He texted Lestrade. Simple, plain, obvious. He could not allow his mind to remain able to run rampant. He needed a distraction, something, anything to return to how things were.

Within minutes, he got a response.

Just sent a body to Bart's. It belongs to the body of a woman we believe is the victim of a serial killer who's been running around for the last few months. You're more than welcome to take a look at it. - GL

Perfect. - SH

A serial killer, just what he needed. For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock managed a smirk. Serial killers were always interesting.

John. Case. Meet me at St. Bart's. - SH

All right. - JW

Came the instant response.

Things would slowly fall back into place. Sherlock would make sure of it.

He grabbed his coat and scarf, and headed out the door.

"Going out dear?"

"Case Mrs. Hudson, won't be back until later."

"Good for you dear." She said, smiling, glad to see her tenant and, let's face it, adoptive son heading out once more.

A hailed cab and a short ride later, he stood in front of Saint Bartholomew's, waiting for John to arrive as well. His flat was only marginally farther away than Sherlock's so it took him an extra five minutes. Too damn long in Sherlock's opinion, and he made it known with a frown as John stepped out of the cab.

John, for his part, simply grinned. "Body then?" He asked, gesturing to the hospital.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course there's a body. Come on." Without waiting, he headed towards the doors, and past the reception area, heading straight for the morgue. It was John's job to pause and alert the reception and security that they were, in fact, here on business and not just a couple of trouble makers here for a good time. Idiots, all of them. you'd think they'd remember him coming often enough to examine corpses, run experiments and tests, and use their facilities to work through cases.

"Sherlock, the body's not going to just walk away you know." John quipped, speed walking to catch up to the consulting detective.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know that John. I simply want to get there before whatever inept Pathologist they have on duty destroys what's left of the evidence. There can't be much left, since Anderson's already been at it, but I intend to find whatever remains."

"All right, all right." he replied, holding his hands out in mock surrender, smirking.

When they entered the morgue, the pathologist on duty was indeed already working with the body. Sherlock could tell she was new to St. Bart's but not new to the field of pathology by the way she handled the tools.

He could see clearly her brown hair, tied up tightly in a pony-tail, parted down the middle. Boring. Short, about a foot shorter than he was. small build, hidden underneath the lab coat and whatever bulky jumper and loose pants she wore underneath it. She had ear buds in, listening to music while she worked. She would be useless, obviously. Time to chase her out of the room.

John gave Sherlock a wary look, noticing the look on his face. This wasn't going to be pretty.

The woman hadn't even noticed that they had come in, but she would soon.

"You, out. Now. You're nothing but a distraction, and I am in no mood to have some mourning woman hovering over the body. You what, just broke up with someone? Emotionally compromised. I bet it must have hurt - learning that he never cared about you." Obvious by the way she held herself, she was in mourning. She was at work, so obviously it wasn't a death or family related. Relationship troubles then. Child's play.

The woman's back stiffened, and the tool she had been using clattered onto the table, the sound of metal against metal ringing through the echoing morgue.

She turned slowly, her brown eyes very much like a deer caught in the headlights - pathetic. Sherlock looked her up and down, his lip twitching in disgust. Thin lips, small nose, petite. Useless, average, boring woman.

She opened her mouth, and closed it once, twice, trying to find the right words.

John gave her a pitying look, and mouthed 'sorry' as her gaze flicked from one man to the other.

Finally, she seemed to gain some resolve. She straightened her back and met Sherlock's eyes as she took her out ear buds, and draped them around her neck before speaking.

"Hello. I'm here."

It was Sherlock's turn to stiffen. That voice. But it was moved his eyes up and down her figure, his mind drawing up something she had told him about. . . when they had the conversation about. . . what she looked like. How had she said she would look?

He cataloged the appearance of the woman in front of him, and of what he had saved. Brown hair, kept in a ponytail. Check. Brown eyes. Yes. Thin lips, small nose. There. Height, definitely close to what he had been told - one hundred sixty-three centimeters. This woman matched.

He cleared his throat. "Hello."

She smiled softly, and looked down, though still gazing at him through her lashes. "Hi. I'm Molly."

"That's a plain name, Molly." Sherlock's jaw locked. No. Impossible.

John was glancing between then, wondering what the hell was going on.

"Molly's an acceptable name, to most."

Bloody hell.

Sherlock spun on his heel and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter 11 Everyone! And the end of this installment :* Yup, that's right, SEQUEL! hehe :3 I decided to break the story up into this part - Is Molly a Computer or Not? and the next part - Find out when you read it :P It'll be called Him, when I begin posting it, so keep your eyes open if you want to continue on this journey with me.

For last Chapter's reviewers, thank you to ilovesunshine93, persephonelove, apedarling, Rocking the Redhead, crooney83, Potix, Smells Like Old Spirit, demi0123, AvoidedIsland, Bella Cuore, SherlockChlo, MorbidByDefault, listrant, IceQueenForLife, piper, Wholocked12, Moonmist18, BazinGal, Rebel's Queen, Lais89, catmilk, virginie59, wittyying, TheHelelelickenInitiative, LvPayne, katierube, and the magnificent guest. Honestly, thank you sooooooo much to EVERYONE who had reviewed, commented, sent me messages, and generally just made this writing experience wonderful.

Until Another Story! :*