"Sherlock, please, no," Molly begged her best friend, trying to tug her arms away from his grip. "I can't…not now." She curled into her covers, her eyes raw and her throat sore.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, but then scooted up on the bed toward her, his hand hovering over her form.

"I'm apologize for doing this now, Molly, and I wish I would never have to, but you have to understand, this is time sensitive."

Molly shot up, not bothering to brush away the strands of hair sticking to her face. "I don't want to do this now, Sherlock. My dad's dead. I just want him back," she sobbed, hiccuping and hiding her face in her hands, letting the tears drip through her fingers. "I just..."

Hesitating for just a moment, Sherlock moved closer, wrapping her in an awkward embrace, just barely touching her. He didn't do close proximity, but he would do anything for his broken friend. The cerulean blue of his eyes became sharp with resolve. Absolutely anything.

It was a week later when he pulled Molly aside to the back of the school, ignoring her protests that she was going to be late for class. A simple "I found something about your dad," and she clutched her books close to her chest, allowing herself to be dragged under the large willow tree.

He pulled out a picture. She took it from him, peering carefully at it. A bit grainy and the man was far away, but his features were still clear. Large, crooked nose, small eyes, mohawk.

"My dad doesn't know anyone like that." She shook her head.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her, plucking the picture from her hands. "Doesn't have to. You know Steve, your dad's friend?"

"Yeah," she said warily. "They're best mates. What are you insinuating?"

"Steve is a drug addict. Painfully clear at the funeral." He ignored Molly's gaze, pulling down at his sleeve to cover the fading yellow bruise on his own arm. "Sunken eyes, burned fingertips and lips, several erratic mood swings in under an hour, highly dilated pupils - probably crack." Sherlock pointed at the picture. "And that's his dealer. I followed Steve into an alleyway and saw him meet up with this guy."

"But what does that have to do with my dad?" Molly glanced at the picture, then up at him. He became uncomfortable. She looked vulnerable.

"Well...when I was in your house I saw traces of white powder around the kitchen chairs. Not your dad's," he added hastily when he saw her devastated look. "It would have been clear. But I...snooped a bit and found your dad's briefcase. There was quite a bit of white stuff in there. Scrubbed out a bit, but that stuff is hard to get out. None of his other friends do drugs, so two possibilities. Would Steve have stuffed it in there without him knowing? Not likely. With that amount of residue, the baggie would have had to be big." Sherlock began to pace. "So that means your dad must have agreed to take it for him for a while. But why?"

Molly sat down on the grass, ignoring possible future stains on her jeans, her fingers finding individual blades and picking at them. Sherlock sat down as well, legs crossed, hands steepled under his chin as his mind whirred.

"Steve's house was a bit rundown, paint slightly cracking. So either he doesn't care, hasn't noticed, or doesn't have the resources to fix it. But he's normally not a slob. His shirt showed signs of once being pressed, barely there folds, so obviously he cares about appearance. Briefcase is also still quite new; the leather is barely darker on the handlebar, showing several months usage. The deterioration was recent, then. Several months at most. Recent addict, doesn't yet know how to handle the intake."

Molly let him deduce on, knowing it was his way of showing he cared. The drone was comforting in a way, getting her closer to closure about her dad's departure.

"Balance of probability - no resources. Why not? Because he spent it all on drugs. Probably stole it then, asked your dad to hide it for him."

"What if he just bought the drugs?" Molly asked, hugging her knees to her chest.

Sherlock shook his head. "When they were in the alleyway, Mohawk was standing with his hands crossed over his chest, and Steve's back was hunched. Pleading then. Why? Out of money, begging for more. Guys like that get desperate. Will do whatever it takes to get more. And Steve isn't an idiot. I saw him glance at the guy's open backpack, and his hands twitched. Itching to take whatever was inside. So he's likely stolen before."

He had been narrating with his eyes closed the whole time, but they popped open now. "Here's where it gets murky. Mohawk was the only one with the motive to kill your dad (Steve has much too low self-esteem to commit such a crime, and your dad's friends with the whole town, seeing the funeral procession) provided he saw the exchange and realized Steve stole from him. So the missing evidence - how do we prove he saw them? How, how, how?" Sherlock questioned, steepled fingers resting against the bottom of his chin.

Molly suddenly stood up. Sherlock sat up straight, seeing the sudden determination in her eyes.

"Let's go steal his backpack." She reached out her arm toward him, tugging him up as he took her hand. "There might be something there."

Sherlock snapped his fingers. "Excellent idea, Molly." He pushed her toward her books and backpack, still scattered on the ground, gently. "Except you're not coming. It's much too dangerous."

"I'm going." Molly set her teeth, straightening her back and glaring at him defiantly. "It's my dad we're talking about."

After a moment of glaring back, Sherlock finally backed down. "Fine. But you're following my every order. And I'll go in, not you."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Update coming soon!