A/N: Once again thank you all for your reviews, favourites, follows... and your patience. Sorry that I don't reply to every review like I used to - I just lack the time. But know that every single one makes me incredibly happy! So thank you for taking the time!

Murder!

"The criminal is the creative artist; the detective only the critic."
― G.K. Chesterton, The Blue Cross: A Father Brown Mystery

Sherlock was not surprised when he entered Tom's flat. It looked just like he had expected - the place of someone who had lost control over his life. Dirty laundry was scattered across the couch, a few take-out boxes were on the couch table, piles of old newspapers in the corner – just a general mess.

With a confident stride he walked over to the couch table, unbuttoning his coat while doing so, and then crouched down to inspect the rug.

Molly stayed close to the door and stared at the scene in front of her for a moment. It somehow felt surreal. She was glad Tom's body was not there anymore. She was not sure if she would have been able to cope with that.

The rug underneath the coffee table Sherlock was inspecting, was stained with remains of blood. The pool of blood beside the coffee table where Tom's body had lain was still very much visible and it made the pathologist feel nauseous. She had to take a few calming breaths in order not to follow her instinct and flee the scene.

Sherlock was completely oblivious of the state his assistant was in and touched the coffee table where Tom's head had hit it.

"I assume you got the copy of the police report?" he asked in the direction of the pathologist, without taking his eyes off the rug.

His words brought Molly back to the present and she hurried to answer, her voice sounding a bit higher than usual, "Yes. The files were in my mailbox today, thank you."

If Sherlock had noticed her distress, he did not give any indication. He got up and went around the coffee table, his eyes a sharp blue.

"When was the crime committed?" he asked.

Molly hurried to retrieve the file from her bag. She was not sure if it had been a rhetorical question, because she was pretty certain that Sherlock knew when it had happened, but in case it had not been, she flipped through the pages and then told him, "The crime was committed before twelve on Wednesday night."

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly and went to stroll through the flat and Molly wondered what he was looking for.

With the file in her hand, she finally dared to step away from the door and followed Sherlock to look around the flat.

"Tell me more about his state of mind," Sherlock demanded, not looking at her but taking in everything in the apartment, although his expression told of disinterest.

The pathologist did not really know how to answer. She shrugged. "We didn't have any contact. It was not like we split up on... good terms. I mean... We were not friends, or anything," Molly stammered.

Sherlock sighed, still looking for clues.

"Still you must know something. I will not get an honest answer from his parents, and I need to know more about him to draw the right conclusions."

Molly stopped walking through the flat. It was pretty useless, since she did not know what she was looking for. So she sat in the armchair in the corner, the bag on her lap.

"His family blames me," she admitted.

"Why?"

"He got depressed after we broke up."

Sherlock went back into the sitting room and waved a hand as he focused on the coffee table again and replied, "The anti-depressants suggested as such. But just because you two broke up?" He shook his head as if that was a total foreign thought to him. "I mean, there are other living creatures in the ocean."

Had Molly not been so shocked by his words, she would have chuckled.

"I guess you mean there are other fishes in the sea."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

The detective crouched down beside the coffee table, retrieved the magnifying glass out of his coat pocket and inspected a glass on the table more closely, as well as the half empty wine bottle and the cork beside it. And suddenly a change came over Sherlock's manner. He had lost his listless expression, and again Molly saw an alert light of interest in his keen, deep-set eyes. He raised the cork and examined it minutely.

Suddenly he got up again and strode into the adjoining kitchen, looking into the sink und opening some drawers and cupboards.

Seated in a corner like an interested student who observes the demonstration of his professor, Molly followed every step of that remarkable research. She had become an expert in watching him while he wasn't looking.

Sherlock took a glass out of one of the cupboards and inspected it more closely. Molly felt hot and cold, for she knew Sherlock was on to something.

He mumbled, "Interesting."

"What is?" Molly asked and got up from the chair.

Sherlock kept looking at the glass in his hand and asked, "What about the tox screen?"

Molly did not have to look into the file to give him an answer, "Still waiting for the final results."

Sherlock did not give any indication that he had heard, but put the glass back into the cupboard. Then he crouched down in front of the counter, squinted and then his gloved hands travelled over the smooth surface and picked up some hair. He stood up, looked closely at it, retrieved an evidence bag out of his pocket and put the hair inside.

Molly came to stand next to the consulting detective and looked past him at the object in his hand.

"Sherlock, what did you find?"

"Evidence. As usual forensics were sloppy."

Before Molly could ask more questions, Sherlock shoved the transparent bag into her hands and ordered, "I want you to look at the autopsy report and analyze this hair."

Only now had Molly a chance to look at the bag Sherlock had given her. It contained some kind of hair.

The detective went past her, back into the sitting room and went on, "I'd say it's some kind of animal's hair."

Before Molly was able to utter a word, Sherlock asked, "Didn't Tom have a dog?"

The pathologist was both surprised that Sherlock remembered such a – for him dull – piece of information and a bit overwhelmed by the turn of events. One moment Sherlock had been totally disinterested in Tom's death and then...

Molly tried to answer as quick as possible, "Yes, Fudge. He's with the Randalls."

Sherlock nodded and went to the door. Molly followed. She was confused.

"Now have you seen that there's nothing to it?" she asked, not knowing what conclusions the consulting detective had drawn from finding some hair and looking at some glasses.

He stopped at the door and gave her his I-am-excited-for-there-has-been-a-murder-smile. "Quite the contrary."

Molly's inside's twisted. "What do you mean?"

"We'll investigate further."

Molly came to stand next to him at the door and packed the file and evidence bag away. She took a deep breath.

"What's next? We talk to his parents?" It was not something she wanted to do. As she had already told Sherlock, she had not been their favourite person after the break-up.

"I've already talked to them. They won't be of any help. I'd say a talk with some of his friends is in order."

For a moment she was not sure, if she had not preferred to talk to Tom's parents. She had not seen his friends since the break-up either.

But before she could come up with some reason why they would not be of any help, Sherlock asked while opening the door, "You've said something about a pub?"

Again Molly was stunned by the fact that Sherlock remembered such a trivial fact from a conversation they had had quite some time ago, but before she could reply, Sherlock's phone went off.

He drew an annoyed breath and barked into the device, "I am busy Lestrade."

The detective inspector was used to the non-existing phone etiquette of his consultant, so he came straight to the point, "Do you think it's a good idea to drag Molly into this?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Molly wondered what was going on. She strained to hear what Greg was saying, but was not able to. And before she got a chance to take a step closer, Sherlock huffed in annoyance, "You told me to find someone. I found someone." And with that he hung up.

Molly stared at him incredulously as he put his phone back into his coat pocket and repeated his question, as if nothing had happened, "Well, the pub?"