A/N: This takes place somewhere in series 3 I guess one could say it goes AU from there. But read and find out for yourself
It was inspired by Sherlock's comment to Redbeard in the mind palace scene in HLV, obviously.

I hope you enjoy it and I'd love to know what you think. English is not my native tongue, and I'm way better in American than in British English, so please bear with me! No Beta, all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. I don't own them so please don't sue.

Sherlock Holmes strode into the morgue as if he owned the place. His collar was upturned and his blue scarf in place. As always his pace was fast, and he was followed by his blogger John Watson.

"Ah, Molly," he started to speak as he spotted the pathologist who leaned over a corpse, "I need to see Mrs Wilkinson." Without waiting for a reply he went over to where the bodies were stored. He stood there with his hands behind his back, as was his usual posture; sure she would appear at his side in a moment. But to his big surprise she did not. A little taken aback he turned around to see why she hadn't followed him. He was used to being followed by either her or John. But the pathologist was still standing beside the dead body on the table unmoving. Only now he took a closer look at her and realized it seemed as if she was miles away. Her stare was distant. Sherlock glanced shortly at John who just shrugged his shoulders.

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried again, "Molly, I need to see the body." And after a short silence he added, "Please."

He was quite content with himself for being so polite. But still she didn't budge. Sherlock's eyes narrowed - a clear sign for John that he was deducing the pathologist.

Clothes even more rumpled than usual, seems like she doesn't even register us, red, puffy eyes – has been crying, dark circles under her eyes – lack of sleep, large stain of coffee on her sleeve – her hands were shaking when she spilled it.

In his mind the consulting detective put two and two together and came to the only logical conclusion. So he moved to stand beside her. He leaned down and touched her gently on the shoulder.

"Molly." His voice was hardly as gentle as his hand. That brought her out of her stupor. She squinted and looked up at him. She was obviously surprised to see him standing next to her.

"Oh hi, Sherlock." Her cheeks turned red, she took a step back from him, looked down on the floor and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. His hand slipped from her shoulder.

"Hello Molly, how're doing?" asked John from behind her. She turned around and smiled weakly at him. "Hello John, sorry I didn't see you back there." The army doctor smiled back and waved his hand in a don't-worry-about-it-way.

Sherlock watched their exchange with impatience, because all those unnecessary courtesies were only delaying his work – in his opinion. He tried to get his pathologist's attention back, "Since now we've established that we are 3 living people in the room, could you be so kind as to show me Mrs Wilkinson?"

Molly turned back to the impatient detective, still trying to keep her eyes downcast. It was obvious she wanted to hide the fact that she'd been crying. She crossed the room, pulled Mrs Wilkinson out and stepped aside, so Sherlock could have a good look. John joined his friend and leaned over the body as well.

"Did you find anything unusual during the post mortem?" John asked.

"You mean, apart from the fact that she was beaten to death by her husband? No. But then again, you're right, that's nothing out of the ordinary." Sarcasm was dripping from her words, and John's head snapped up in bewilderment. Never before had he heard sweet Molly Hooper talk like that.

Sherlock didn't seem appalled at all. On the contrary, he looked intrigued as he asked, "Why do you think it was the husband?"

Molly shrugged her shoulders. "Isn't it always the husband? There's a wedding band on her finger, hence married. She was severely beaten, which is a very personal way of killing someone. It's typical for a crime of passion. He must have been in a rage. Maybe he found out she cheated on him. Additionally there are older bruises on her arms and ribs – typical signs of domestic abuse. Furthermore Greg told me there were no signs of a burglary, so she must have known the murderer. Case closed."

Only now Molly looked up at Sherlock Holmes. He stared right back at her. She did not flinch under his scrutinizing gaze.
"Interesting," was all Sherlock finally said, still looking at her as if she was some specimen under a microscope.

John was looking from one to the other, having the feeling something very weird was going on between the two of them. He was used to the not stammering after-the-fall-version of the pathologist by now, but a rant like that…

Molly cocked her head to the side. "I wouldn't have thought you'd find this case interesting. It must be righteous boring for you, if even I could solve it."
Sherlock looked closer at her – if that was even possible. "I was not talking about the case."
Molly's eyebrows drew together in confusion. Of course Sherlock did not elaborate. He turned on his heels and left the morgue without another word.

Molly was still staring blankly at the spot where the consulting detective had been only seconds ago. John laid a hand on her shoulder, mumbled a "Thank you," accompanied with an apologetic smile and left to follow his friend.

The next day

The case of Mrs Wilkinson was closed. It had been almost exactly as Molly had said: Mrs Wilkinson was trying to get a divorce from her abusive husband. He found out she already got a new lover, so he lost it and killed her in his rage. Lestrade had found Mr Wilkinson at his stepbrother's house, just as Sherlock had told him he would.

John had to agree with Molly: The case had been too easy. Normally this would not even rate a three on detective's scale. So why was he bothering with it? But there seemed to be a pattern: Since Sherlock had been back, he had taken up more and more cases that rated low on his scale. And for all those cases he had to go to St. Bart's. John wondered if that was somehow related? But then again he had to think about Sherlock's behaviour yesterday. It had been obvious Molly had had a bad day, but instead of acknowledging it, he had behaved like he always did – apart from touching her. That was new. Sherlock was not one for initiating physical contact. John decided to address the matter at hand.

"You should have been nicer to Molly."

Sherlock shrugged while sitting on the couch. "Why?"

"Didn't you see how she looked like?"
"I did not only see, I observed."
John crossed his arms. "She's having a hard time."
"She had obviously been crying over the end of her engagement." Sherlock still seemed to be ignorant of why he should have been nicer to the pathologist. The army doctor sighed. Sometimes it was beyond John's comprehension why he had to explain elementary things like that to the world's only consulting detective.

"And that's why…" Sherlock held up a hand and interrupted him, "John, I don't need you to explain to me why Molly's having a hard time. I know why Molly behaved the way she did. It was quite obvious, really."
"Really?" John gave him the care-to-share-with-the-class-look.
For an observer one could have thought Sherlock was reluctant so share his deduction, but John knew him well enough to know that the detective loved to show off. So he explained, "Molly got very emotional over the beating of Mrs Wilkinson. She concluded that the murderer had been the husband, which resulted from her projecting her feelings towards Tom on the husband. Hence the only logical explanation is that Tom cheated on her. Although I've got to admit that I'm surprised about that. He didn't seem like the cheating type to me, but then, that's not really my area. So tell me John, why should I pity her? She should be glad to be rid of him, the cheating bastard!" The way he said the last words gave John the creeps. He wished for poor Tom he would not cross paths with Sherlock Holmes in the next couple of days. Apart from that John was unfazed. Sherlock looked sceptical.

"What?"
"You guessed wrong, mate."
"I don't guess."
"Then you've jumped to the wrong conclusion."
"And I don't jump to conclusions either, John."
"I know, you only jump from rooftops."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. "I do deductions. It's a science."
"Well, I'm sorry to tell you, but you've deduced wrong. The end of her engagement was not why Molly had been crying."
After a beat of silence, "Now, will you tell me why?" Sherlock was getting impatient.
"I thought you don't need me to," John teased. The stare his former flat mate gave him, let him know that he was definitely not in the mood for teasing.
So John gave in, "Toby died."
"Her cat?"
John opened and closed his mouth in surprise. Sherlock Holmes, who could not even remember Greg's name, knew that Toby was Molly's cat?!
After recovering from his little shock he continued, "There were always cats' hair on Molly's sleeves, because she pets Toby before she leaves the flat. There were no hairs on her sleeves yesterday."
Sherlock looked like he had been slapped across the face. And he knew how that felt – he had been slapped quite a few times since his resurrection.
"Additionally," John continued, "I know that Molly was the one who broke up with Tom, and it had nothing to do with cheating." At the end of his speech a triumphantly smile crept on John's face. Sherlock still looked baffled.

After a moment of silence Sherlock cleared his throat. It was a rare occasion to see Sherlock Holmes being hesitant to speak.
"So, you're saying, Molly is sad because her tabby died?" He frowned. "But he wasn't old. Domestic cats live an average of 15 years."
"Maybe Toby got sick and he had to be put down?" John suggested.

Sherlock's head snapped up. At first he stared at John, but then got this vacant stare as if remembering something. Still John wanted the conversation to keep going.
"What did you mean with interesting?"
Sherlock's eyes flickered over to John. "It's not relevant anymore."
"Sherlock, why did you take this case? Molly was right, you must have figured it out the second you read the police report. There was no need to go to Bart's and see the body." The detective seemed appalled at John suggesting such a thing. "There's always a reason to go to Bart's!" he stated with finality. John's eyebrows wandered up to his hairline. Where was that coming from?
"Sherlock, is there something you want to tell me?"
For a moment it seemed to the doctor as if his friend might continue and let him get a glimpse of that twisted thing that was his brain. But of course that didn't happen. John had asked for one more miracle and he had gotten it. He couldn't expect another one.

So Sherlock's answer was to put his hands under his chin and retreat to his mind palace.

After John had gone home, Sherlock had to do some research. Normally he would have taken advantage of his blogger to gather the information, but this was something he had to do on his own. This was something personal.

It had not been hard to find out where he had to go. It wasn't even far away. It was so close that he decided to walk. Picking the lock was easy as well – he was not breaking into a bank after all.

As he went through the first room he heard noises and saw some eyes reflecting the light of his torch. He tried to keep the ray of light on the floor, so he would not disturb the creatures too much. He couldn't shake off the feeling of déjà-vu. Only this time he was on a mission and there was no Mycroft following him.

In the second room he found what he had been looking for. Carefully he picked up the box and got out again as quickly as he could.

On his way back to Baker Street he had to admit that although step 1 of his mission was completed, something was still troubling him: How could he have been wrong about Molly Hooper? How was it possible that John had known what was going on? Sure John was way better than him in terms of reading people's feelings, but he couldn't quite believe his friend had deduced the pathologist's state from the lack of cats' hair on her jumper. That was way too farfetched for the army doctor.

But the question that was bothering him the most was: Why had Molly broken off her engagement? Sure, he knew she didn't really love Tom, but that hadn't kept her from accepting his proposal. So why would she bother now? And why was he even thinking about his pathologist? When had she become his pathologist in his mind? Why was it bothering him that she was on first name terms with Lestrade – whatever his first name was, Geoffrey? Was he losing his mind? The box in his hand should have been enough prove for that. He almost wanted to laugh. What was he doing? It was ridiculous. He stopped. For a moment he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Even John had noticed it: He would take almost every case that required him to go to Bart's. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew exactly why. It was the same reason he had committed a break in tonight and why he was standing on the pavement with a box in his hands.

It was no use. He would have to ask John before he could proceed to step 2.