You and Sherlock

It's Always Like That

The day started much the way it was wont to do at 221B Baker Street: Mrs. Hudson dropped tea off at your apartment door; you heard Sherlock come clambering down the stairs at some ungodly hour; and you -- invariably -- were running slightly late to work.

Your tardiness was not entirely your fault; an unfortunate side-effect of having the consulting detective living just over your bedroom was the noise at odd hours in the night, every night. Translation: your nights were restless at best, completely and utterly void of sleep at worst. Waking up in the morning and dragging yourself out of bed was akin to walking on broken glass barefoot, but you did it anyway, because work was work, and you needed the job. That didn't mean you liked living under Sherlock Holmes.

So, on that dreary morning, you crawled out of bed and into the bathroom to get ready, all the while cursing the very existence of Sherlock "The Insomniac" Holmes. You forced your hair into some semblance of a ponytail, hastily brushing out the knots that had formed during your restless night. You dug through your scrubs, noting to yourself that you had to do laundry soon, and put on a clean pair. Grabbing your lab coat as you slipped out the door, you made your way to St. Barts Hospital. You silently gave whatever God there was a prayer of thanks that you had Molly to ensure you never needed to be around whenever Sherlock decided to pop in, steal a corpse or two, or dissect an eyeball. Not that Molly minded, you thought to yourself, rolling your eyes. She was always more than happy to accommodate the insufferable detective's whims. And not that it was even your job to assist Sherlock; you weren't a lowly lab tech. You were a pathologist. You had an M.D. and no time for Sherlock's antics.

The overcast, cloudy sky seemed particularly oppressive today as you hailed down a cab. Traffic was light that morning, the ride to the hospital was uneventful. You sighed in relief as the hospital came into view; you wouldn't be as late as you had anticipated you would be.

As you entered the lab, you saw equipment out and abandoned. Molly was here, then. Sherlock must have been, as well, if Molly had up and left everything out irresponsibly. If you had to put money on it, you would bet Molly had wandered off to let Sherlock into the mortuary. Shaking you head, you flicked on the lights into your office. You didn't see why Sherlock couldn't just get a damn key already. Your computer monitor was already on, lighting up with notifications; breast biopsies, skin biopsies, other cell samples to analyze. You flopped back into your chair; it was going to be a long day, and it was only nine in the morning.

At ten, you left to go drop off a lab report at a doctor's office, and when you turned into the hallway leading into the lab, you saw Molly scurrying back into the lab, Sherlock unsurprisingly sauntering in behind her, looking for all the world like he owned the hospital itself. It was a good thing there was only one of him, you snorted to yourself you came down the hallway.

By the time you opened the door, you saw Sherlock already there, analyzing something under a microscope. Molly hovered around in the background uncertainly.

"Good morning, Molly," You greeted her casually. Molly nodded back at you, seeming almost nervous. You really hoped Molly wasn't about to try and ask Sherlock out on a date again.

From the lab table, Sherlock shushed you.

"I'm concentrating," he snapped, not looking up from the microscope.

"And I'm working," you retorted waspishly, sweeping back into your office dramatically. The effect was probably lost on Sherlock, who hadn't even glanced up. Molly eventually followed you into the office and sat down at her desk, taking out some paperwork to fill out.

At eleven-thirty, you watched as Molly walked out of the office and over to Sherlock, who was standing at the far side of the lab, dropping liquid onto a Petri dish. She was likely asking if he wanted more coffee, you thought critically.