A/N: Again, I would like to thank my wonderful readers, followers, reviewers and especially my beta Pipsis, who all support my stories in such a wonderful way.

Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide.

The chapter heading is a quote from A Feast for Crows by George R.R. Martin

Some lies are love

"Never hide things from hardcore thinkers. They get more aggravated, more provoked by confusion than the most painful truths."
― Criss Jami

Two days later Sherlock was not only bored out of his mind, but also extremely frustrated. True, those two frames of mind usually went hand in hand (his landlady, his former flat mate and the wall knew all too well), but this time the circumstances were a bit different: Sherlock was bored because he did not have a new case (he was so languid, he had almost investigated in the case of an envelope filled with orange pips) and he was frustrated, because his mind kept wandering back to Molly Hooper.

Why had she been so upset? Had it something to do with him? Usually he had no problems figuring her out, but this time…

What was different about this time? He blamed the absence of a good case for his condition. Why else would he bother to think about Molly Hopper if not out of utter boredom? His treacherous mind tried to suggest another reason, but he refused to listen. It was utterly ridiculous, simply impossible! He was Sherlock Holmes, he did not indulge in… that kind of thing. He was not interested in…

His thoughts were interrupted by noises from downstairs. Two people had entered the building, and he heard Mrs Hudson join them. Slowly they climbed the stairs. The two people were a man and a woman – and he could deduce from their gait that they were grieving. He heard their muffled voices outside his door.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," came the voice of his landlady through the door, "He was such a sweet boy. We were all very fond of him."

A female voice thanked her and then there was a knock on his door.

Sherlock did not bother to say something, because he knew Mrs Hudson would open the door anyway. Any talks about privacy on his part had proven to be fruitless.

Just as he had expected the door was opened and in stepped his landlady followed by a married couple (wedding rings) in their early sixties. They had lost their son, obviously. The grief was clearly edged on the woman's face, whereas on her husband's face Sherlock could see more repressed anger than sadness about their son's death.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson began, "Mr and Ms Hopkins have come to see you."

The consulting detective bit back a comment about stating the obvious. Somehow their name sounded familiar. Hopkins… where had he heard it before?

Instead of saying something he nodded and gestured them to sit down on the couch.
Sherlock went over to the chair across from the couch and sat down.

Mr and Mrs Hopkins looked from the consulting detective to Mrs Hudson, as if asking for her consent. When she nodded encouragingly they hesitantly made their way over to the couch and sat down.

"Tea would be nice Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said.

The older lady gave him a look. "Not your housekeeper, my dear. Just this once."
With that she went back downstairs to prepare the hot beverage.

Sherlock waved his hand imperiously, "She always says that."
Mr Hopkins forced a smile.

Sherlock's patience for social niceties had exceeded and he started his interrogation, "Why do you seek me out in the case of your son's demise?"

The couple looked befuddled for a moment. Sherlock held up a hand, "Please refrain from stating how brilliant it is. It is my job to observer such things and I agree on my brilliance. So, how did he die?"

Mrs Hopkins cast her eyes down, obviously fighting the urge to break into tears, while her husband studied the detective. Sherlock could see that he was looking at him in a manner he was quite familiar with. Mr Hopkins was a police officer.

And while Sherlock was content with himself for deducing that, the man on his couch said something, he had not expected, "Apparently Molly hasn't told you."

Sherlock had enough training not to let his surprise show on his face. How come they knew Molly Hooper? And why was he on first-name-basis with her? He desperately searched his brain for the possible connection, but could not come up with one.

Of course, he refrained from letting them know that he was quite clueless, but asked another question instead, "What is it that Molly has not told me about?" He hated it when other people knew more than him.

It was not Mr Hopkins who answered, but his wife, who told the rug beneath her feet, "That Thomas has died." She drew a shaking breath.

Sherlock's mind raced. Thomas... Did Molly have a friend whose name was Thomas? Did Molly have any friends at all – apart from her colleague Meena? How come he did not know such a thing? Was he really that oblivious to what was going on in her personal life? No, he had known about Meat Dagger and... He stopped mid-thought. Meat Dagger's name... What was it? He searched his mind palace. Somewhere in Molly's room, in some drawer he had stored the name. Tom. His name had been Tom – Thomas. And suddenly he knew why the name Hopkins had sounded so familiar: Those were Tom Meat Dagger's parents sitting in front of him. He wanted to slap his palm against his forehead for his stupidity. He was so surprised by this sudden revelation that he almost blurted out, "You're Meat Dagger's parents!"

Fortunately he did not, but cleared his throat and said, "No, apparently she has not told me. So, what happened?"

Mr Hopkins explained, while his wife kept staring on the floor. "He was found dead in his flat, with a head wound, a broken neck and..." The officer's voice faltered and had trouble going on.

Sherlock used the pause to interrupt, "So, the police think it was suicide."

Now Mrs Hopkins lifted her gaze off the floor and looked at the detective with red-rimmed eyes. Since her words seemed to be caught in her throat, she opted or nodded.

Sherlock leaned back into his seat. "But you don't believe it."

Finally the woman found her voice again, "How do you know?"

Sherlock sighed. This was beginning to feel tedious, "A mere suicide would not have caused you to come for me."

"The police refuse to investigate," Mr Hopkins said with anger in his voice.

Sherlock did nothing to hide the boredom in his voice, "Why want a complex explanation when a simple one is at hand?" He could hear mind palace-John berating him, "Rude!" But he did not care. Those were just parents who refused to believe that their precious son would do something as scandalous as committing suicide.

Mr Hopkins' jaw tensed and anger blazed in his eyes. "All we're asking for is for you to look into this. He was your friend. I think that's the least you could do."

Sherlock was about to tell him that no, Tom had definitely not been a friend of his, but the desperate plead of Mrs Hopkins kept him from it, "Please, Mr Holmes! Our son did not kill himself!"

Just as the consulting detective was about to berate her, the door was opened and in waltzed Mrs Hudson with tea and biscuits. She set the tray down on the coffee table and then looked from the couple to Sherlock.

"So Sherlock, I figure you're helping Tom's parents, don't you? I imagine Molly would very much appreciate it."

Her voice was sweet, and innocent, but the look she gave her tenant was anything but. It was a silent threat, as not to contradict her. And although Sherlock would have never admitted it, he did not want to be on Mrs Hudson's bad side. He would not have gone so far as to say he was afraid of her, but...

He stared right back at her and mulled it over in his head. He did not have a case at the moment, and this one would probably be solved within 24 hours. Additionally Mrs Hudson was right: He could do it for Molly. She would appreciate the gesture, and a grateful Molly was more likely to provide him with body parts.

He sighed deeply and turned his gaze back onto the couple on the couch.
"I will have a look into it," he said.

Mrs Hopkins' eyes light up, but before she could utter a word, Sherlock went on brusquely, "If you would excuse me, I have a busy schedule." He looked pointedly at the door and heard Mrs Hudson clearing her throat, clearly unhappy with his behaviour. He ignored it.

Mrs and Mrs Hopkins got up from the couch and did not seem half as offended as Sherlock had thought (hoped).

Mrs Hopkins stretched out his hand, "Of course, I understand. You are a very busy man, Mr Holmes. Thank you."

They shook hands.

"Thank you Mr Holmes. I know you will find the truth of what happened to our boy." Mrs Hopkins' eyes shone with tears. Sherlock only nodded.

Just before they were to step outside his door, Mr Hopkins added, "Molly knows where to reach us. Please keep us updated."

Something about the way she said Molly's name made Sherlock pause.

"I will," Sherlock lied and then he closed the door behind them.

He turned to Mrs Hudson, who gave him a look, "You know, it was rude to kick them out like that. They did not even have a sip of the tea." She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh please, I was way too kind to them. Under different circumstances, I would have thrown them out after their first sentence."

His landlady shook her head and made her way towards the door, but Sherlock stopped her with a question, "Why did you say we were very fond of him? The only one who was, was Molly."

The older lady looked at the detective with a sad smile, as if pitying him for not understanding, "Sometimes kindness means to stretch the truth a bit." Then she left him alone in his flat.

Sherlock contemplated her words for a moment, and found that he was not sure if he agreed. How was stretching the truth better than lying? Sure, he was not against lying – it was kind of a necessity in his job and he was not a good person – but were good people not supposed to tell the truth? Would Molly lie to him in order to be kind? She had lied because of him – for him. He had made her a liar. And why was he thinking of the pathologist again? Probably because of the case.

He grabbed his phone from the table and pressed speed dial. After ringing three times, Lestrade picked up, "Sherlock, I've already texted you, there is no new case."

The consulting detective demanded to know, "Why didn't you tell me that Meat Dagger died?"

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the line. The inspector was clearly surprised by that question.
Finally he sighed and said, "So, Stanley contacted you. I suspected he would."

"Who?" Sherlock was irritated that Lestrade had not answered his question.

"Stanley Hopkins, Tom's father. He's a copper in Sydenham."

"You knew he would contact me, then why didn't you tell me?"

Again Lestrade sighed, "I didn't know, I just had a hunch."

"You had a hunch?"

"You have your deductions, normal people have a hunch."

Sherlock stared pacing in his living room. This conversation was rather annoying. "You can't compare a conclusion drawn from an observation with having a hunch."

Now Lestrade got defensive, "What's the matter with you? Is John still in Oxford? You need to find someone for the times John is away. You are unbearable without a babysitter."

Sherlock growled, "John is extending his stay."

"I see."

"So, why didn't you tell me about Meat Dagger's sudden demise?"

Lestrade explained with a strained voice, "I didn't tell you about Tom's death, because I didn't think you would be interested. It was an accident, probably suicide, no third party negligence."

"So what was it now: an accident or suicide?"

"Hard to tell. According to the preliminary tox screen he was full of anti-depressant and alcohol. But the official cause of death was a broken neck. He fell and hit his head, so..." His voice trailed off for a moment. There was a pause, before he continued, "So, his parents want you to investigate?"

"Yes."

There was silence on Lestrade's end of the line again, and Sherlock suspected the inspector nodded his head in understanding. Sherlock was just about to ask a question, when Lestrade asked, "Did you talk to Molly?"

Sherlock was confused, "Why would I talk to Molly?"

Now it was the inspector who sounded frustrated, "Maybe because Tom is her former fiancé..."

Sherlock did not respond to that, but demanded, "I will need the case file and have a look at his flat."

"Whatever. I'll have a copy ready by tomorrow. But Sherlock, if you talk to Molly..." but the detective inspector did not come any further, for the line went dead.

Sherlock laid the phone back on the table when a small smile formed on his lips. Although this day had started out looking rather bleak, it had turned out to end rather well. He did not only have a new case (although a quite boring one), but had also solved the mystery of Molly Hooper's strange behaviour of two days ago.

A/N: Sorry that the updates will take a bit longer than usual this time. I have already written about half of the story, but it needs careful planting, so please forgive the waiting time. I will try to keep it as short as possible.
Thanks for reading!