A/N: Thank you all for sticking with me until the end and being so wonderful and encouraging. I know I've kept you waiting for updates quite a while now and then. My only excuse is that my life changed completely from when I started writing this story last year to now. I don't even live on the same continent anymore...
So, thanks for being patient, taking the time and being a part of this journey.

Once again a kiss to me beta ML. Thank you for making this story and my life better.

Dial M for Molly

"The end of understanding is not to prove and find reason, but to know and believe." – Thomas Carlyle

"Come, Molly Hooper, come", he cried. "The game is on. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!"

Molly almost jumped out of her skin when Sherlock Holmes stood beside her bed, waking her up much too early in the morning. She blinked a few times, trying to focus on the man in her bedroom, who seemed to be even more impatient than usual.

"Sherlock, what...?" she started, but he interrupted her, "I said not a word, now get dressed and come." With that he turned around and left her to get ready.

Thirteen Minutes later Molly Hooper stood in her living room, ready to go, watching Sherlock Holmes pacing.

"I'm ready," she announced, not sure if he realised she had entered the room since he seemed to be deep in thoughts.

He stopped his pacing immediately and suddenly all of his attention was focused on her. Molly felt her cheeks turn hot and she was sure the detective noticed her blush. She had no idea what was going on, but started to get a bad feeling.

Sherlock moved closer and regarded her with great interest.

"Sherlock, what's..." But once again he interrupted her, "The way you did it was quite canny. But then I've always know you to be clever."

Now Molly really had a bad feeling; she felt her stomach turn into knots and she felt sudden chill came over her. She tried her best not to let her nerves show. She closed her eyes. If he didn't see her, then maybe he wouldn't see her.

By now Sherlock was circling around her; Molly knew she had to open her eyes again. Apart from not wanting to appear suspicious, hearing Sherlock's steps as he walked around her was making her even more nervous.

SO, she summoned her courage and opened her eyes - she almost stumbled backwards in surprise; Sherlock was standing right in front of her, his pale blue eyes focused on her.

"What happened the Prof. Eustace Brackenstall?"

Molly needed her best acting skills not to let her surprise and stress show. She took a breath and tried to reply as calmly as possible, "What do you mean, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. "Don't play dumb Molly Hooper, it doesn't suit you. What happened to Eustace Brackenstall?"

Since Sherlock was standing a bit too close for her comfort, she took a conscious step back before answering, "I don't understand why you want to talk about a former professor of mine..."

The consulting detective cocked his head to the side. "You understand very well. Now would you inform me of the true circumstances of Prof. Eustace Brackenstall's death, or do you want me to tell you?"

Molly felt her heart beat so wildly in her chest, that she feared Sherlock could hear it. Defensively she crossed her arms in front of her chest and said, "The truth belongs to me."

A sly smile formed on Sherlock's face, as if he was satisfied with her answer and he resumed pacing as he told her what he had found out about the death of her former professor, "You probably wonder why I bring up Professor Brackenstall at all when we're actually investigating on the death of your former fiancé? But it's quite logical. It all started the other day when I saw a text on from a certain AG on your phone. It said, 'YOU DID THE RIGHT THING. JUST LIKE WITH EB'."

Molly was about to interrupt him, but Sherlock held up a hand.

"Please keep from berating me about privacy or the like; you know it is irrelevant now."

Molly closed her mouth again and Sherlock went on, "Naturally I was curious about whom AG was. As it turned out the initials belonged to one Abby Grange, your former flatmate at uni who had accused one of her professors of rape."

Sherlock took a small pause to let it sink in, and Molly felt the need to sit down, fearing she knew where the conversation was leading. Despite this, she refrained and remained standing.

"So I paid Abby Grange a visit. Don't worry she is a real friend and didn't tell me what had happened. Anyways, she didn't need to. Looking through the evidence and the old police files was all I needed. Granted, I had a little help from John, but I would have managed without him, I'm sure."

Molly couldn't resist any longer and sat down in the armchair. Sherlock smiled smugly at her action, as if it proved something to him and then went on, "According to the medical report Eustace Brackenstall died of a heart attack, but as John pointed out the ECG showed peaked T-waves and small P-waves; typical for a person suffering from hyperkalaemia, which leads to a heart attack. But he didn't suffer from hypokalaemia, so why was there such a high dose of potassium chloride in his body? The doctors didn't see that at the time, because it is something easily overlooked, and they were stupid or lazy. Additionally, they don't check for it when doing an autopsy - because potassium chloride is an electrolyte found naturally in the body. And who would know that better than a prospective pathologist?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing and now looked Molly directly in the eye. She had a hard time not casting her eyes down, but she managed to withstand his look.

Sherlock continued, "As I looked through the photos of the crime scene, I discovered something interesting: Professor Brackenstall was known to be a heavy drinker, so no one had paid attention to the wine bottle and glass beside his body. Probably because no one but me realised that they had been the murder weapon. There was beeswing, or potassium bitartrate, in the glass and bottle. That's nothing out of the ordinary in itself, but in the right dose it can be deadly because of the excess of potassium, which leads to hyperkalemia – Professor Brackenstall's cause of death."

Now Sherlock took a step towards Molly and looked down on her. "So it looks as if Professor Eustace Brackenstall did not die a natural death, but was killed. Probably by someone very knowledgeable in medicine and chemistry. Someone who's best friend's life had more or less been destroyed by that man. What do you think, Molly?"

It took the pathologist a moment to let it sink; to understand everything Sherlock had just laid out. For such a long time she had tried not to think of it, to forget it, but she never had. It had always been in the back of her mind. And although she knew she would do it all over again, she felt guilty. She had taken another person's life and there was no denying that.

She didn't know what to say. There was so much and yet nothing. She knew it was useless defending herself or explaining it. Sherlock already knew it all and everything she could say had likely already crossed his mind. Therefore she remained silent and stared at the rug beneath her feet.

Instead Sherlock asked, "Has anyone known, apart from Abby Grange?"

Molly gulped and had to hold back tears. She nodded, "Yes, my dad. That's why he was sad in the end, before he died. He knew it, but we never talked about it."

She didn't look up. If she had, she'd have seen the sad expression on Sherlock's face.

"I'd have never have thought you were capable of this," he told her honestly.

That made Molly look at him, with tears glistering in her eyes.
"I've deceived people for 2 years. I am good with secrets," she said with a sad smile.

Sherlock returned it.

"I won't pretend to know what you've gone through," he said, sounding surprisingly sympathetic.

Molly shook her head, "But you do know. You know exactly how it feels to kill someone in order to protect a friend."

"Or the people you love?"

Molly raised her eyebrows, "You don't believe in love, Sherlock."

He looked at her as if that thought was completely absurd.
"I would be a fool not to. Love is one of the strongest motivations. In my work I see what love – or at least what people mistake it for – can do. People are capable of the cruellest things in the name of love."

Then his expression changed; his features became softer as he looked at her and added, "And of the most incredible and impossible things."

There was a pause, in which both looked into each other's eyes and for a moment Molly believed that everything would be alright and that she would get a happily ever after in the end. But then she remembered the beginning of their conversation, and that this was probably the end of her life as a free woman.

Her face turned to stone; she blinked back the tears that had threatened to fall and sat up straight. She would not give in as a crying coward. She would at least try to appear strong.

Sherlock realised the change in her stance instantly and his face also became a mask once more. He straightened and began pacing again, waiting for Molly to say something. She did eventually, "But there's more to why you told me about Brackenstall, right?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing for a moment, as if to think how he wanted to continue until he resumed pacing and confirmed, "Yes, there's more. Your story is an absolute fabrication."

"Which story?" Molly asked confused.

"About the last time you saw Tom. Basically everything about Tom." He looked at her hard and once again Molly had to cast her eyes down. She'd feared that he had found out from the moment he first looked at her that morning, but had hoped she was wrong. Obviously she was not.

Sherlock realised Molly was not going to say anything, he decided to do the talking, "There was also a wine bottle and crusting on the wine glass in Tom's flat, so as soon as I found out what had happened to Eustace Brackenstall and talked to Abby Grange, I suspected that was how Tom had died as well."

Molly's head snapped in his direction and she opened her mouth to protest, but Sherlock held up a hand and told her, "Let me finish. I know this is not what happened. I know you didn't kill him on purpose. It was an accident, wasn't it?"

All of the sudden his features softened and he walked over to her. When he leaned down to her, Molly tried to turn her head away, but he gently held her chin in place. With delicate fingers he pulled away the scarf around her neck to reveal a nasty blue-green bruise, turning yellow-ish.

His eyes widened and he gulped. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. It was almost a caress.

"What did he do to you, Molly?"

Molly couldn't look him in the eyes. She felt tears stinging at her own again and she knew she would start to cry as soon as she looked at him. She didn't want to cry. Not again.

The consulting detective realised that the pathologist wouldn't or couldn't say anything at the moment, so he offered, "Do you want me to tell you what happened, and how I found out?"

Molly still didn't look at him, but nodded with her head staring at her feet.

Sherlock resumed pacing, as was his habit when telling of his own brilliance.

"As I've been told, Tom was not only prone to alcohol and anti-depressants, but also to beating his girlfriends. That's why you get along well with Theresa Wright. You sympathise with her. After Abby Grange told me about Tom's real nature I went back to the Tyburn convent you followed Theresa Wright into. As it turns out there are no AA-meetings held there, but support groups for domestic abuse."

Molly didn't interrupt him to ask how he had gotten into the women-only convent.

"So I knew you had lied to me from the beginning and began to go over every piece of information you had given me up until that point and everything you did. For instance at the beginning of our investigation you said 'he was my ex-fiancé' – you were rather quick with the past tense."

Sherlock walked over to Molly's bag which was on a chair, opened it and retrieved her pen knife.

"The wine bottle in Tom's flat was opened with a cork screw which could not be found in the flat; hence it had to be somewhere else. I remembered seeing you retrieve your pen knife – which you always carry with yourself – out of your bag the night I came to the lad and Tom died."

Sherlock inspected the cork screw on the of the pen knife. "I'm positive the marks on the cork fit this screw."

He closed the knife again and put it down onto the coffee table.

"Talking about the lab, I checked your alibi. You were there when I came in, but you had only arrived shortly before I did. I talked to Mike Stamford and he told me you were adamant that you overtake his shift, because I was coming in, and had demanded to work with you. Therefore he left you the rest of his shift. You knew I would come in, because I always do when I come back from a case, and John had informed you of my return. Hence, you presumed you had the perfect alibi."

Molly drew a deep breath, sighed heavily and drew a shaking hand through her hair. Sherlock was too busy telling his tale to notice her reaction.

"When you didn't hurry with the analysis of the hair we found in Toms flat I did it myself and found out that it was a cat's hair, which led to the conclusion that it was like to be of your cat. So I came to your place and looked for Toby, who was nowhere to be found. Something must have happened to him. While I was here, I also discovered the catalogue on cruises and you reacted very peculiarly when I asked you about it. You were not planning on going on vacation; you were planning on going away."

Molly sat up and leaned back against the backrest of the armchair with her eyes closed. So many thoughts and feeling were rushing through her that her head was swimming. She was not sure if she was appalled, scared or relieved that Sherlock was so right about all of it.

In the meantime Sherlock went on, "Then I went back to Tom's flat. Like I've said before I knew another glass had been used, washed and dried. Very likely by a woman, given that most men never bother to dry glasses, so water stains remain on them. Then, while I was sitting in Tom's armchair thinking, I discovered a bloodstain. I did a test and found out that it was your blood. He very likely hit you. When I saw you that night I mistook your swollen nose and red cheeks for signs of crying when it had been signs of beating. How could I have been so blind?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Molly with as much sympathy as she had ever seen on his face bafore.

So this is what I believe happened; "Tom kidnapped Toby to make you come to his apartment. He wanted to have a glass wine with you. He showed you that he had killed your cat and when you started to cry and got angry he hit you and you fell against the armchair. He tried to get to you again, but you shoved him away. He lost balance, fell and hit his head on the coffee table, which broke his neck. He was dead instantly. You decided to remove all the evidence that you had been there, because given his state of intoxication everyone would think he had just stumbled and hit his head. No third party negligence. And it would have worked, if his parents had not asked me to take the case."

A deafening silence settled. Sherlock was standing in front of Molly, staring down at her, while waiting for her to affirm that his deductions had been right. But Molly remained silent. She sat there with her eyes closed and tears streaming down her face.

The consulting detective didn't know what to do. He had never been in a situation before. Sure, there had been clients and culprits who had cried, but usually John had known what to do. Now John was not here and he felt at a loss.

But he knew he needed to do something to comfort her in some way.

He sat down on the coffee table so that he was sitting across from her.

His voice was low and soothing when he confessed, "How slow-witted I have been, and how nearly I committed the blunder of my lifetime! I honestly thought you were happy."

His admission made Molly open her eyes and sit up. She looked at him to gauge if he was being honest, of it was just another evil trick to get her to talk.

When she didn't find any sign of deceit, just honest concern in his face, she said, "I was. He was all honey when I first we met him – only eighteen months ago. Now I feel as if it were eighteen years."

She shook her head and brushed away the tears.

"Everything went well, 'til the wedding. He saw how I looked after you, and..."

She stopped for a moment to get her shaking voice under control, "I wanted to go after you when I saw you leave, but I dared not, because Tom would… He had always been jealous, but after the wedding it became so much worse. He drank more and more and then started to scream at me when I worked late and wanted to know if I had been with you. Then one night he slapped me. He instantly apologised and I knew he felt bad about it, and he assured me it would never happen again."

Molly looked down onto her hands, which were nervously fiddling with her trousers and continued, "But of course it happened again. And it got worse. I tried to end it, but somehow I couldn't. He was not only this bad man. He was also caring and loving and... But then one night he wanted to have sex, and I refused so he... Forced me and..."

Tears were streaming down her face again and dropped onto her hands in her lap.

"That's why I wasn't visiting you in hospital after you got shot. I couldn't. You all would have seen."

Sherlock felt his heart ache for her and wanted to do something, which he hardly ever felt the urge to – he wanted to touch her, to lay his hand on her shoulder, do draw her into an embrace and shield her from everything bad. But he didn't dare. So he remained where he was, intently listening to what his pathologist had to say.

"But that incident gave me the strength to finally end it. He threatened me of course, but I told him that you knew and would kill him if he tried anything. So he left me alone for the most part. Just texted me now and then when he was drunk."

Molly drew a hand over her face to brush the tears away.

"A lot of people did not know the real Tom. His family only wanted to see the best in him, naturally. But even as much as I wanted to believe it, he was not a good person."

She paused as she arranged her thoughts, and then went on, "And then two weeks ago I found this note in my mailbox that he had Toby and wanted to see me... Then everything got out of hand and he took me by the throat and hit me and..."

She looked down onto the floor again, ashamed and said in a small voice, "It happened like you said. I shoved him. He fell. And he was..."

She didn't finish the sentence, but left it hanging in the space between them.

Normally Sherlock would have felt satisfaction for solving such a complex case, for being right, but this time he didn't feel satisfied at all. He just felt empty. He didn't know what to do.

For a moment it seemed as though they had come to an impasse.

Molly was the first to speak again, "I'm glad you know."

She hadn't realized it was true until it tumbled out of her mouth. A part of her was relieved. Because a part of her had wanted him find out all along.

Sherlock felt rage bubbling up inside himself. He didn't know what he would have done to Tom, had he known, had he seen. He loathed Tom and he loathed himself for turning a blind eye.

"Why didn't you go to the police?"

Molly snorted. "So that they could enact a restraining order and he's have to stay 500 yards away? He would have just ignored it. And he would have gotten really angry. And you don't want Tom to be angry. Even I have seen enough police movies to know that no suspect who is under police protection survives."

Sherlock's expression became stern. "That's why you would have been under my protection."

Molly shook her head, as if that was an absurd thought.

"Why didn't you come to me, Molly?" He honestly didn't understand.

Molly looked at him. She was surprised he didn't understand. "I didn't want you to think me stupid and weak. For falling for such an arse again. For being helpless. For letting him do this to me."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "So it was pride that kept you from coming to me?"

Molly sighed sadly, "No, it was shame."

Silence settled once again, and for the umpteenth time Sherlock wished he knew what to do. He realised that he had not thought this whole thing through. He was prepared for this kind of emotional conversation, although it should have been expected. Be berated himself inwardly for not being better prepared.

Once again it was Molly who started talking again, "In a story there may be a fair prince or captain to save you, but in real life one is all on their own."

Her voice sounded so sad that Sherlock felt the urge to tell her that she was wrong; but he feared it would seem strange and dishonest coming from him. He who had said he didn't need friends or family, whose credo was that being alone was what protected him.

Molly sat up straight again, bracing herself for what she thought was about to happen know.

"I figure Greg is waiting outside." She tried her best not to sound too defeated.

Sherlock was appalled, "Is that what you think of me? That I would thank you for everything you've done for me by calling the police to turn you in!?"

Now Molly was confused. "So you're here because you think you owe me?"

"You are twisting my words. When have I ever done something, because I felt obligated?"

The pathologist could hardly argue with that. "But what does that mean? You are a consultant detective, you catch the culprits and you follow the law."

Sherlock regarded her calmly, because now he knew what to do. He had thought about this a lot and had come to a conclusion. "Once or twice in my career I feel that I have done more real harm by my discovery of the criminal than ever he had done by his crime. I had rather play tricks with the law of England than with my own conscience."

Molly still stared at him bewildered. He tried to explain it differently, "Our investigation has been independent, and our action shall be so also."

Molly's eyes widened when she finally understood what he meant. She was so overwhelmed that she couldn't even react when he took her hands in his and added, "Unfortunately, we cannot tell John either. He'd come up with some sensational title."

Thankful for him lighting up the mood, she suggested, "The poisonous pathologist."

Sherlock smiled, "Nice alliteration… Or what about The Detective and the Deadly Pathologist?"

Molly smiled as well and felt like a heavy weight has been lifted off of her chest.

Only now did Molly squeeze Sherlocks hands back.

"You know, John said you are a good influence on me," Sherlock told her.

Molly raised her eyebrows, "He might want to change his opinion on that."

The detective waived a hand. "He should be used to killers in the family by now."

Molly couldn't help but giggle. It felt good. She couldn't remember when she had done that the last time. But she stopped when she realised Sherlock was looking at her with an earnest expression.

"Sherlock?"

He cocked his head to the side as he regarded her. Not with his usual cold, deductive look, but with affection.

"You were wrong, you know? You are brave. You still dare to love after everything that has happened to you."

Molly felt nervous all of a sudden. She hadn't expected a compliment, especially not from this man. She smiled and said, "Now you've figured me out."

"I think there's still a lot to figure out about you, Molly Hooper."

Molly was drawn between pulling her hands back from his grip and leaving them there, just because it felt too nice. She was not sure what was going on or why Sherlock was acting so nice all of a sudden.

She decided to just ask, "So what happens now, Sherlock?"

He shrugged carelessly. "I will take care that something like what happened with Tom won't happen to you again."

"How?"

"I have found you a boyfriend. He is an arse from time to time, but would never aver hurt you in any way: me."

Molly only stared at him, as if he was mad. "What?"

Sherlock smiled a smug smile. "The Lexus is already waiting."

Molly shook her head confused, "We're going on a stakeout?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not a stakeout. I brought coffee and scones. You know what that means..."

With a wink and a mischievous smile he pulled her up from the armchair and out the door.

The End

A/N: Sherlock had a tough moral decision to make and I am sure not everyone agrees with him. Now you have the reason why I have chosen "The Adventure of the Abbey Grange", because it is one of two original Sherlock Holmes stories in which Holmes lets the culprits get away, because he sympathizes with them. And that proves to me more than anything that Holmes indeed has a heart and is able to show empathy.