***In the interest of time, I will be posting this story without editing it first. Please bare with any temporary typos or grammatical errors. Thank you.***

A little over an hour later, Molly exited the police call, following Greg up to the small house in Loughton.

"I said 'wait in the car!'"

"You're not getting rid of me that easily, Detective Inspector!"

With a growl of disapproval, he began to knock on the door.

"Tom! It's Greg. Greg Lestrade, Molly's friend?"

After a moment of silence, he tried the door.

"No answer and it's locked. Don't suppose you still have a key? Be a bit faster than a warrant."

"Yes, I do, actually. Been meaning to give it back for months, now."

"Still carrying his key around? And you sure you're over him?"

Greg began unlocking the door as Molly bristled.

"Look, it's not as if I didn't want to give the key back. I simply kept forgetting!"

The door swung open and Lestrade started in with caution.

"You know, I never did understand you two. What did you ever see in him?"

"Not exactly the time, Greg!"

"Right. Sorry. Tom? Are you here?"

No answer. The two pressed forward, making their way through the house, little by little, which only began to frustrate Molly.

"If he is in trouble, why are we moving so slowly?"

"Because we don't know who else might be here, Molly. Tom? Anyone home?"

"Look, this is ridiculous. Tom, doesn't need saving! He's probably at work. It's nearly nine, after all!"

"Do you leave for work with breakfast half eaten and still on the table?"

Looking into the kitchen, Molly gasped as she registered what she was seeing. Greg raised a hand to silently shush her, turning his gaze upstairs. Quietly, he grabbed for his gun, motioning for her to stay put, which she gladly obeyed. Every nerve in her body seemed to vibrate as she stood stock-still next to the table. Her thoughts ran wild as the prevailing silence took a toll on her worry. She nearly jumped from her own skin when her friend's voice rang through the house.

"Molly, love, go back to the car. I'll ring Sherlock. You don't need to see this."

"What is? What did you find?"

Before the DI could bar her path, she was up the stairs, passed him, and into Tom's bedroom. All at once, a cold shiver ran up her spine and seemed to choke a verbal reaction from her. The headboard of the bed had been removed from the wall and laid face-down. On the back of it, and on the wall behind, were dozens of what looked like surveillance photos. As she moved closer, Molly began to notice a chronological order. The first set were of John, seemingly a bit younger, and a little more plump than now. Then, John's horrible mustache phase. Then Mary. Then - no, not the baby, too!

Molly's mind began to reel as she took in photo after photo until one, in particular, made all thought come to a screeching halt. At the very top of the group was a single photograph of Molly, coming out of St Bart's and walking with John. But the army doctor wasn't the focus of the image, unlike every other pasted to the headboard. No, she was. And next to it, an article ripped from a newspaper, with her name circled in red.

Molly's breath became shallow and her heartbeat quickened. Was it all a lie? Had it all been yet another lie? After a moment of sheer panic, the medical examiner noticed that Greg had moved to the bathroom and was staring in through the open door.

"What is it? What's in there?"

"No, Molly, don't - !"

But it was too late. As Molly turned the corner, she let out a horrified and blood-curtling scream. In the bathtub, lay Tom, with a single gunshot wound to the forehead.