[St. Bartholomew’s Hospital – Laboratory, late morning]

The smell of disinfectant clings to the air, sterile and sharp. The overhead fluorescents hum faintly as Sherlock Holmes—coat swishing behind him like a cloak of authority—paces into the lab with calculated urgency. Molly Hooper turns quickly from the autopsy table, her cheeks already warming at the sight of him.

Sherlock: “Fine. We'll start with the riding crop.”

He snatches it from the metal tray, then briskly approaches the recently deceased, flexing his gloved fingers.

Molly: “So, bad day, was it?” she quips nervously.

Sherlock: (without looking up) “I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me.”

He doesn't wait for her response. Molly tries to find her footing in the moment.

Molly: “Listen, I was wondering—maybe later, when you’re finished—”

He glances at her, eyes sharp, then pauses, noting the faint shine on her lips.

Sherlock: “Are you wearing lipstick? You weren’t wearing lipstick before.”

Molly: “I refreshed it a bit.”

Sherlock: “Sorry, you were saying?”

Molly: “Would you like to have coffee?”

Sherlock: “Black. Two sugars. I’ll be upstairs.”

With that, he turns away, sweeping past the autopsy table and toward the staircase. But instead of ascending immediately, his eyes catch on you.

You're not just a shadow in the corner of the lab. You're the one silently reviewing blood samples at the far counter, unbothered by the drama, quietly competent. Sherlock's gaze lingers a second longer than necessary—not in sentiment, but curiosity.

You’ve crossed paths before. You're not officially on the team, but your presence at Bart’s has become routine. You assist in the lab when needed, reserved yet intelligent, your deductive remarks offered sparsely—but when they are, they’re always right. You don't clamor for attention like others around him. And perhaps that's why he's noticed you at all.

You're the person who understands how to stay out of his way and still be useful. In a world full of noise, you’re something rare: competent, quiet, and perceptive.

And maybe, eventually, someone worth acknowledging.