A/N: Thanks again for all the encouraging words. You rock!
For your information: There's won't be a new chapter for 2 weeks, since I am on vacation, but I will try to put the next one on asap.
Enjoy and thanks for reading!

Bass Rock

"All lies lead to the truth." – The X-Files

When the investigating pair stepped into the dimly lit pub, Sherlock drew a face when the smell of alcohol and cold cigarette smoke hit him full force. He had never been a fan of the famous English pup scene, but this place was even more awful than he had imagined. The interior was out of dark wood, the walls were full of tasteless paintings of sailing ships and the shelves were decorated with ships in bottles. The detective recognized a general maritime theme.

"So this is the pub where you went on the weekends with your fiancé?" Sherlock asked the woman standing next to him while still scanning his surroundings.

When she did not reply he stated, "I imagined that place to be quite different."

Without waiting for an answer, he walked straight up to the bar where two men, a woman and a grim looking barkeeper were standing. Apart from them no one else was in the Bass Rock, which was not surprising given the time. Most people were at work, home or simply doing something more socially acceptable than drinking in a sordid pub at noon.

The woman was slim and tall with long strawy blonde hair. She wore faded jeans, a black T-shirt and a leather jacket that looked as if it belonged to a man. She stood behind the two men on this side of the counter, and her eyes widened when she glimpsed Molly.

The pathologist followed Sherlock close on his heels. When they came to stand in front of the small party, the eyes of the men narrowed dangerously on her small frame, and one of them stepped towards her and growled, "What the hell are you doing here?!"

He was about to grab Molly's arm, when Sherlock's hand shot forward, grabbed the man by the wrist and twisted the man's arm on his back. He let out a cry and bent down, given the way Sherlock held his arm in a vice grip.

Instinctively Molly took a step back and watched with a racing heart as Sherlock snarled towards the man in his grip, "I suggest you'd be more welcoming towards an old friend."

The other people in the bar watched the scene with wide eyes, not daring to interfere, although it was clear from the look on the other man's face next to the woman that he was raging.

Sherlock gave the man's wrist another pull and then shoved him back towards the others. For a second the consulting detective risked a glance towards the pathologist to make sure that she was alright.

She looked like a fragile bird, frightened and barely able to keep herself from shivering. For a moment the detective wondered why she reacted so strongly to those people that had once been her friends, although seeing them now, he could hardly believe it. But before he could contemplate it any longer, the growling of a dog was heard.

Sherlock turned around and saw a Rottweiler turning around the corner that seemed to lead to some kind of back-room. Having grown up with a dog, he was not afraid of it, although it did not look particularly friendly. The dog did not look very pretty altogether: It was limping, one ear was frazzled and the left side of his face looked distorted, as if it had been burned.

"So that must be Fugde," Sherlock stated and pointed towards the intimidating looking dog.

At the mention of its name, the animal stopped growling and cocked its head to the side to regard the man in the Belstaff with alert eyes.

"Yes," said the woman, made a step forward and batted her thighs, whistled and added, "Come here Fudge." The dog gave Sherlock one last look and then went over to the woman who had called him.

She petted him. "Good boy. Sit." The Rottweiler did as told.

"My name is Theresa. Theresa Wright, those are Pete and Stuart Randall and this," she pointed towards the barkeeper, "is Jack Crocker, the captain of this sinking ship." She smiled, what was supposed to underline her joke, and stretched out her hand towards Sherlock.

The detective shook it reluctantly. "I'm Sherlock Holmes and I have a few questions concerning Thomas Hopkins' death."

"So you are this sleuth she always talked about," the man called Pete Randall said with disgust while indicating with his head towards Molly and rubbing his wrist where Sherlock had held him.

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I guess I am."

Theresa had been eying Molly since she had introduced herself and the others and finally acknowledged her, "Good to see you, Molls. How are you?"

Molly's eyes light up a bit when she answered, "I'm fine, thanks. What about you? You look better."

Theresa only nodded and a small, but genuine smile formed on her lips.

Sherlock, who thought that he had enough of useless small talk, started his interrogation, "So when have you last seen Tom? And where were you on Wednesday night between 9p.m. and midnight?"

He looked at the three men and Theresa Wright.

Stuart Randall huffed, "Why should I answer your questions? I know what you're doing. Do you think I'm stupid?"

Sherlock drew up an eyebrow which made him look even more smug than usual.
"I hope this was a rhetorical question."

When Stuart Randall looked confused, Sherlock felt the need to explain, being sure that Mr Randall did not understand what rhetorical meant, "Of course you are stupid."

Stuart made a move to confront the detective with his fists, but the barkeeper reached across the counter, "How many times should I tell you guys, if you wanna have a fight, go outside."

Annoyed, Stuart shook off the hand of Jack Crocker and continued his staring match with Sherlock, who was naturally unimpressed.

When none of the Randalls answered the detective's question, the barkeeper replied instead, "The last time I've seen Tom was on Sunday, I think, but I am not sure. I just know that it was not Monday, because we are closed on Monday, and he was not here on Tuesday or Wednesday."

Sherlock nodded. "And where were you on Wednesday night?"

Mr Crocker made a sweeping gesture with his hands, "What'd you think?"

"What about you?" Sherlock turned towards Tom's others friends.

"I was here too," Theresa replied and indicated with her head in the direction of the Randalls, "And those two as well." She looked at Molly shyly and the cast her eyes down onto the floor.

Sherlock shrugged. "Now was that so hard? That's all I wanted to know."

The detective was about to turn around when Stuart thought he was brave (or in Sherlock's opinion stupid) and made a step forward and confronted Molly, "And what about you, you..." but he did not some any further, because Sherlock was blocking his path, shielding Molly from his hateful gaze.

"You better leave her be, or you will be very sorry, Mr. Randall." The calm way Sherlock said it, without any emotion in his voice, made Molly's blood run cold.

And obviously it had the same effect on Stuart Randall, for his eyes widened in fear when he whispered, "I believe that you are the devil himself."

Sherlock Holmes smiled at the compliment, turned around and with a protective hand on the small of her back guided Molly Hooper out of the Bass Rock.