A.N. Before I begin I would like to first apologize for how long it has taken me to update…well, just about anything. My policy with fanfiction is that I need to FINISH the story before I post it. And, unfortunetly, many times I've started something that I just couldn't finish.

With that out of the way I would like to say that this story is a labor of love. What started as a one-shot to make Molly's character a little less…flat, turned into a nearly 23,000 word story. I was able to finish it without any problems (I cranked this baby out in about 5 days) and I really enjoyed writing it.

For everyone's benefit, this story starts off right after the first Season of Sherlock (and goes through at least the first episode), and around the 5th season of Supernatural.

I hope everyone enjoys and please, if you could, review when you are done! Thank you!

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural OR Sherlock…if I did this work of love would be an episode, thank you very much!

The morgue of St. Bartholomew's, particularly at night, would scare the pants off of any normal person. With the rows of chambers housing bodies that had been mutilated in some form or another, and the uncanny smell of disinfectant mixed with the iron tang of blood, most people would high tail it out of there as soon as possible. But not Molly Hooper.

She enjoyed working in the morgue at night. No one would bother her. And, if she were being honest with herself, she enjoyed being alone with the bodies.

Not because she had a strange fetish. Oh god no.

It was because, at night, no one noticed when she would take the bodies that hadn't been claimed and were no longer being used for an investigation, douse them in a bag of side-walk salt she kept hidden in her office, and burn them in the crematorium. Or when she would move the decorative rug in her office to make sure the devil's trap she had sprayed on the floor when she first started didn't need touching up. Or when a body came in that had strange markings or strange maulings, she could make a call to one of her special friends that were spaced out around Europe to go take care of the problem. She especially liked it, though, because she could be herself. The real Molly Hooper.

First, however, a little background behind Molly Hooper. She was born a fairly unremarkable child, to a British father and an American mother. She was an only child who loved cats and pretty things. At age ten, however, things took a drastic turn in her life.

It all started with the murder of her mother and father.

She was never exactly sure what killed them. What she did realize, though, is that whatever it was had torn her mother to shreds and had lain waste to her father. All she can remember of that day was the shields she placed up around herself, to protect herself from the pain and fear.

And the blood on her hands.

She was sent to live with her father's father in Sussex, but it didn't work out. The old man was mad, and hated her. He blamed her for his son's death, and would remind her every day with blows to the head and back with his cane. She pushed the rage and hurt she felt down, deep, behind her shields. And when the abuse was discovered after she turned up at school with blood on the back of her uniform, the child services had to relocate her again.

The only other family she had was her mother's dead sister's husband, of whom she had never met. He lived somewhere in South Dakota, America. His name was Bobby Singer.

Now, Bobby Singer was more than a little reluctant to take in the young girl (she was informed that he had held the lawyers at gunpoint the entire time they stood on his land). Eventually, when he found out that she was the last of his dead wife's family, he took the young girl in. He told her that he was a rare book collector. She was to stay out of certain rooms of his home, and had to attend school to the fullest extent (including finding an after school activity so that she wouldn't be home until supper time). She would come home some nights and would have to stay in her room all night. She would try and study while she listened to his drunken rants. The next morning she would go downstairs where she would find him passed out in one of his many 'forbidden' rooms. But at least he allowed her to call him 'Uncle Bobby'.

It took only a month before she discovered what he really was.

To be fair, Molly had always been quite smart and observant (even if a certain someone didn't think so), so when she was confronted with her first supernatural creature (in her own bedroom!), she did the only thing she could think of. She covered her head with her blanket and screamed for her Uncle, who ran in not two seconds later and shot the thing (turns out later it was a ghost) to high hell.

After that she began to learn how to shoot. The rage that she had felt inside began to dissipate as she found an outlet.

She was an okay shot, but nothing compared to the two boys she met about three months into living with her uncle. It had been late and Molly had fallen asleep on the couch in her Uncle's study, the Old Testament in one hand and his journal in the other. Suddenly a knock sounded at the door.

That was the night she met eleven year old Sam and fifteen year old Dean.

She and Sam, of whom she was only a year younger, became fast friends. He found her to be funny, with her heavy British accent and love of books. Dean, on the other hand, didn't want much to do with her. He was far more interested in learning the tricks of the trade. And protecting his little brother.

Which is probably what began her interest in unattainable men.

She developed a strong crush on Dean, which he did not return in any way, shape, or form. So when, a week later, their father came back to get them, she in turn was crushed. She threw herself into her studies and into the research that Bobby forced onto her.

By the time the boys came back, almost a year later, her crush was near nonexistent. As was her skill at hunting. But, as her Uncle Bobby stated, she was a damn good researcher.

Over the next few years she began to develop the skills of a hunter. She became used to seeing dead bodies, mutilated beyond repair, and even doing a little bit of the mutilation herself. She also developed a strong bond with the Winchester boys.

Dean, over the years, began to regard the girl as a younger sister, someone he had to protect just as he had to protect his brother. Sam took advantage of the fact that Molly was an excellent listener, and he began divulging all of his secrets and insecurities to her.

So when Sam left his brother and father, she was probably the least surprised of everyone. She was proud of his decision to go to college. And, to be honest, a bit jealous.

Not even a year later she told her Uncle that she was leaving. Britain was beckoning her, with its call of a normal life. He let her go. He knew how much she wanted this. She had done so well in school, despite the fact that she had made no friends (no one wanted to befriend the weird British niece of the town drunk), and had to endure extreme amounts of teasing, that she had been valedictorian.

Proudest moment of Bobby's life, if he were to be honest with himself.

So she moved into a small flat in London. Bobby had sent her with many boxes of his own first edition, extremely rare books, and a couple of extra little doodads for 'safety'. She swore that she was one of the only people in Britain that slept with a sawed off under her mattress and a silver knife under her pillow. She attended school and, not long after, got the job in the mortuary at St. Barts.

And, not long after that, she had her first run in with the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

He had burst into the mortuary on her second day, demanding to see a fresh body. When he had spotted her he had stared at her like she was a piece of dirt under his shoe. She had felt so…exposed by his stare that she found herself hiding behind the shield that she had built up over the years. He spewed out something about her insecurity and her love of cats, and left it at that.

Unfortunately this was the same moment when she began to develop a crush on said consulting detective.

Back to present day, Molly Hooper loved nights at the mortuary. The quite, the peace, the…what was that noise?

Molly turned around from the body she was currently examining. She turned back to the body, then strode around the table so that she was facing the doors. This last week had been a bad week; terrifically awful as a matter of fact.

She had been questioned by three separate officers from Scotland Yard, each of whom had questioned her involvement with James Moriarty. She had only known him as Jim from IT. Sweet Jim, who enjoyed watching Glee and playing with her cat Toby, was actually a psychopathic murderer who enjoyed strapping bombs to innocent people.

It was a good thing those officers didn't know about the gun she kept in her cutlery drawer, or the hypodermics of dead man's blood that she kept in the crisper of her fridge. Otherwise they might think her a psychopath as well.

Molly looked down at the body again, sighing when she spotted the telltale signs of a Vetala victim. She pulled out her cell phone and pressed number 7, her contact in Ireland where the victim had come in from.


"Mickey? Yeah, I've got a live one for you. Vetala victim. Fresh. Maybe three days old."

"T'anks Mol."

"You're welcome Mick. And watch out; they hunt in pairs."

And that was that. She hung up the phone just as soon as she had called. Conversations were never long when it came to hunters. She sighed and looked at the tag on the toe; another John Doe.

She pushed the body down to the crematorium, scooped a couple of handfuls of salt onto the body, and then pushed it into the flames. She heard a scream issue from the morgue down the hall, and smiled slightly.

She went home around 6 am when the other guy came in to replace her. He gave her a sideways look. He had heard about the Jim/Moriarty incident. Molly, the fake Molly that came out when people were around, dipped her head as she grabbed her coat and keys. She got into the first taxi she spotted, gave him her address, then sulked in the backseat.

Once home she threw her keys at the wall, which startled Toby, who ran and hid under the bed. He was used to his mistresses bursts of anger.

"Damn Jim! Damn Sherlock! Damn Idgits!" she yelled, using her uncle's favorite 'nickname' as she punched the wall next to her door. She heard something crack and rolled her eyes. It only took a few seconds and an ice pack for the displaced finger to feel better. She had dealt with worse. She sat down in front of her TV, turning it on but not watching.

She looked down at her phone, bit her lip, then grabbed it up and dialed a very specific number, one that she memorized long ago.

"Yeah?" came a gruff voice. Molly smiled.

"Hey Uncle Bobby," she said softly.

"Molly? What's wrong?" he sounded worried. Molly smiled even wider. It was nice to know that some people worried about her. After everything that had happened with Moriarty, no one had come to check up on her. Only to accuse her. Suddenly she spilled everything to her Uncle; everything that had happened with Jim, with Sherlock, and then some. By the end she was fingering her favorite pistol, lovingly nicknamed Pretty Boy, and trying to not shoot up her pillows again (she could still remember spending nearly two weeks cleaning up the feathers).

"Sounds to me like you shoulda shot the idgit when you had the chance," Bobby said.

"It's not that simple Bobby. He's, like, an insane criminal mastermind."

"You sure he ain't a demon?"

Molly laughed.

"Pretty sure. I dosed him with holy water and he ate salted nuts when we were watching Glee."

She could almost feel the eye roll.

"Anyway, Uncle, I just wanted to talk to someone that cares about how I am-"

"Course I care, otherwise I woulda dumped yer ass at a boarding school and left it at that."

She started laughing. Her Uncle always had the strangest ways of showing how much he cares.

"I know Uncle, I just…needed to let off some steam. Thanks for listening."

"T'weren't no problem. You know you can call me for anything."

Molly nodded, tears forming in her eyes.

"I should get some sleep Uncle. Just got off the night shift and all."

"Good idea. I've got some more research to do for the boys, then I'm gonna turn in myself. Get some rest girly."

"You too Uncle. By the way, how are the boys?"

She knew her boys, her brothers, were up to their necks in trouble right now. Course, when weren't they? She mused.

"You know how those two are. Up to their necks in trouble, as usual. I'll tell them to give you a call later."

Molly laughed to herself, then hung up the phone. She felt ten times better after talking to her Uncle, and sleep came to her fast after that.

So how is it so far? Review plz! Reviews make me a happy little monkey!