A/N: No, the title is NOT a spelling mistake. Obviously this fic is based on the story The Adventure of the Abbey Grange by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (yes, the one where the famous quote "The game is afoot!" comes from), but you don't need to know it to understand this one.

Also feat.: Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Toby, OC

Timeline: Some time after series 3 and the (Not-) revival of Moriarty.

Once again I am very grateful that Pipsis took it upon herself to proofread this story. Thank you!

Disclaimer: The following story is based on characters copyrighted by ACD, BBC, Hartwood Films and whoever else owns a piece, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset.

Shadow of a Doubt

"Keep you in the dark
You know the all pretend
Keep you in the dark
And so it all began."
–Foo Fighters, The Pretender

It was on a bitterly cold and frosty morning, towards the end of winter, and the world's only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was on his way to the morgue of St. Bartholomew's hospital in London. Well, strictly speaking it was early morning – call it night – for it was 3:30 a.m. The detective just came back from a case in Oxford and was about to check on his cultures in the lab of St. Bart's, as was his custom after finishing a case.

The stairs and corridors that led to the basement – where the morgue and lab were situated – were deserted at this hour, but Sherlock did not mind; he even preferred it this way. The only living person he would encounter down here was the pathologist on duty, which was Mike Stamford. Sherlock preferred working with Molly Hooper, but he was merely here to check on his experiments and subsequently not in need of a pathologist. Although an annoying voice whispered in his head that he would've liked running into Molly, boasting about his brilliance on his latest case. It was hard to shake off the feeling that the morgue was ... not the same... without her. He shook his head in order to make those thoughts disappear and rounded the corner to enter the lab.

As soon as the swinging doors closed behind him, he stopped dead in his tracks. Through the window he could see the profile of Molly Hooper in the fluorescent light of the small office. She leaned over the table, rummaging around in her bag, unearthed a lipstick (the colour would not suit her), an apple, tissues, a penknife and a ridiculously small hairbrush. She didn't seem to have heard him enter, for she was totally focused on what she was doing. Her face was showing signs of distress and, could it be... tears? Sherlock squinted. Yes, there were tear streaks on her cheeks, her eyes and nose were red and swollen.

Suddenly Sherlock felt his stomach turn into knots. He was torn: She had not seen him yet. Should he just leave and act as if nothing had happened? Or should he... He stopped mid-thought. Should he what? Comfort her? With words, with physical contact? He knew that was probably the right thing to do, but when did he ever do the right thing? Especially when Molly Hooper was involved… So why break with that tradition?

Maybe because somehow he wanted to do something to make her feel better. The problem was just that he had no idea what.

Dealing with gruesome murder was easy, but dealing with crying people – a crying Molly – was a whole different matter. Two years ago he would have just walked away without giving it a second thought, but he had changed and that made things more complex (much to his chagrin).

Sherlock sighed deeply and was still contemplating how to proceed, when suddenly Molly's head turned in his direction, and she stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights. But it was not so much fear in her eyes, it was more a desperate urgency in them that left him confused. Now the consulting detective knew that it was too late, he could not leave, and somehow he was glad that fate (if one believed in such a thing) had taken the decision out of his hands.

Hastily Molly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and blew her nose with one of the tissues she had just put out of her bag. She put everything back into the bag and took a deep breath. She felt nervous all of a sudden. She tried to tell herself that it was absurd, because she had known that he would come. John had texted her that the case was over, and she knew as soon as Sherlock was back in London after a case he checked on his cultures. He always did that, no matter what time it was. Old habits die hard.

But then, it was fairly understandable that she was nervous. He was the man she still loved, the world's only consulting detective, and the man who knew everything about you by just looking at your shoe laces. And she could not bear the thought that he would look through her right now. It would ruin everything. It would ruin her, what was left of her. She had not wanted him to see her cry. She had told herself that tonight was the last time she would cry over him. She had shed too many tears because of him.

Molly balled her hands into fists (she was glad that they did not shake anymore) and closed her eyes for a moment to calm her racing thoughts. She was not sure if she wanted him to ask her what was wrong or not. A part of her longed to talk to him about it, to get it off her chest, before he would cruelly deduce her.

Another part was desperately afraid of such a conversation. And while one voice in her head screamed at her that he had changed, that he cared and that he would help her, another one reminded her that people did not change and that he would not understand, that he was not interested and that whatever he might have said and done, he plainly did not care. Unfortunately that was the voice she listened to.

The pathologist zipped up her bag, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned to face the tall man outside the door.

When Molly stood in front of him, he could not help, but let his gaze wander over her petit frame. Deducing was second nature to him, and as opposed to what John thought, he could not just turn it off, even if his best friend found it inappropriate at times.

The pathologist was nervous, confused, sad, self-conscious, tired and most of all desperately trying to put up a brave face. Sherlock had to hold back a comment that he found it insulting that she would even try to disguise her state. She was supposed to know better. But he swallowed his words and instead regarded her with cold eyes.

She cleared her throat and tried to sound nonchalant, "Hi Sherlock, so you're back from Oxford. How was the case? I did not really get what it was about. John said something about lost 25 cents or a Rugby player?"

Sherlock waved it off, while still trying to figure out what was wrong with her. "Doesn't matter, merely a 7. I'm sure John will describe it in length on his blog and find a fancy title for it."

Molly gave him a forced smile and shrugged. "I figure Mary's glad to have her husband back?"

Normally Sherlock would not have bothered with small talk, but it gave him the opportunity to study Molly more closely in order to deduce why she was so out of sorts.

So he replied in a bored tone, "I guess so, although John did not come back to London. Mary and the baby went to Oxford to spend a few romantic days together." He put the word "romantic" under air quotation marks and said it as if the word would poison him.

Then he added, "I really don't see what's romantic about a city full of drunk students and sharing a hotel room with a crying baby." He shook his head, as if the thought disgusted him.

Molly almost had to laugh at this. She passed him and went over to the table where Sherlock's favourite microscope was situated.

Sherlock followed her with his eyes, still not knowing what was going on in that mind of hers.
He followed her while she picked up some file she had left on the table and put it into the drawer where it obviously belonged.

Molly expected Sherlock to sit down at his microscope and begin with his ritual, but he remained standing and stared at her. She felt his eyes on her back, and she had to fight back the urge to shrink under his intense gaze.

"What are you doing here?" he asked suddenly.

Molly took longer than necessary to put the file into the drawer, but she could not look him into the eyes. Therefore she answered with her back towards him, "Swapped shifts with Mike Stamford."

Sherlock found that the carelessness in her voice was almost convincing. Molly's acting skills had highly improved over the years – given the need (he could probably take most of the credit for it) – yet she still could not fool him.

For a moment he contemplated asking her why they had changed shifts, but he decided that it did not matter, and he did not really care. He was busy telling himself that he was NOT glad that she was here. That it did not matter if it were Mike or Molly.

Sherlock blinked and realized that at some point during his inner monologue Molly had turned around. All of a sudden he was the one being under a perceptive gaze, and he found that he did not like it. Was that how his friends felt every time he looked at them? How could they stand it?

Molly's lips twitched in an attempt at a smile, as if she had read his thoughts and she pointed towards the cupboard and the fridge where his experiments were stored.
"You know it's not necessary that you come running to the morgue to check on your cultures every time you've left the city for a case," she stated.

He put his hands into his coat pockets. "I know it's not necessary, but I...," he stopped mid-sentence. He had been about to say, "I want to." What was wrong with that? Maybe because he wanted to come here not only because to look after his experiments, but to see...

Before he could finish this disturbing – and altogether absurd – thought, Molly stated, "You don't trust me."

She crossed her arms in front of her chest, but despite her body language she did not seem offended.

He shook his head, "I don't trust your colleagues."

Molly only nodded and walked over to the fridge to get one of the samples he currently studied.

He watched her take it out and put it onto the table and noticed that she still seemed distracted, as if her mind was miles away. He started to become frustrated, because he could not deduce what was the matter with her.

And as usual when he felt inferior he lashed out on the people round him, "Your taste in clothes has always been atrocious, but a turtle neck shirt? Seriously? Your neck is too short for such a shirt. It makes you look like... Well, let's say: You live up to its name. If I didn't know it any better, I'd say you're trying to hide a hickey."

Molly froze in her movement, and he could see a moment of panic in her eyes. Slowly she reached one hand up to touch the fabric of the shirt at her neck and then looked at him.

Sherlock felt like he had swallowed a stone. He had not wanted to be insulting, but it had happened. Again. He knew he should apologise, before she would start to cry again, but his tongue was tied. All clever words had fled his mind.

He could see Molly swallow, then she tried to hold her head a little higher, when she said, "I'll leave you to your experiments."

With that she left behind a consulting detective who was not only clueless why Molly Hooper had been acting weird, but also why he felt disappointed that she had not added, "If you'll need something, I'll be in the morgue," like she usually did.

A/N: For once a purely selfish note: Someone talked me into participating in the Fandom contest over at inkitt dot com– with Copper Beaches. So if you liked the story here, it would be amazing if you'd hit the "Like"-button there and support my story. Thank you!