How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 1: I'll Never Tell

Sherlock didn't bother to lower the phone from his ear after Mycroft hung up. His mind was reeling, grasping at impossible possibilities. How, how could he have survived? And even if he could survive, how had Sherlock missed it? He saw Moriarty blow his own brains out, right in front of him on Bart's roof. There was no way to fake that. But apparently, there was, because the psychopath was back.

He cursed his arrogance and thoughtlessness. Why didn't I check his body? Why didn't I make sure his heart stopped? Why didn't I shoot him myself? Granted, I hadn't killed anyone up to that point but I got over that pretty quickly afterwards. Oh, I should have known. We are the same, if I could fake my death, then so could he. Sherlock shook his head violently. No, no, this doesn't make any sense. It isn't possible. There is no way. There has to be a piece of this puzzle missing. And besides, I spent two years taking down everything he worked for and saw no sign of him. Not a single hint that he could be alive. He can't be that good, can he?

He fought a small smile. As John would say, mirth was inappropriate at a crime scene. And if Moriarty were truly back, all of England was about to become a crime scene. If he was entirely honest, Sherlock was excited as well as afraid. His greatest adversary was back. He had someone to challenge him. Not that he relished the thought of actually dying this time but the thrill of the situation ran through his veins like a drug. He smiled ironically. It was either cocaine or a case. Nothing else gave him that intense feeling.

Well, maybe... No, let's not let our mind wander. He leaned back, closing his eyes, and proceeded to steeple his fingers as the plane landed, preparing to delve into his mind and dig up the memory of that day that he never could delete, no matter how hard he tried. Before he could lose himself in thought though, John burst into the plane yelling, with Mary hot on his heels.

"Sherlock?! Sherlock! Molly!!" Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Molly Hooper. Oh shit. It wouldn't be difficult for Moriarty to work out that she assisted him that day. As long as that maniac was loose, Molly's life was in grave danger. Let's not explore why that causes a literal pain in my chest.

He sprang to his feet, pushing past the couple and down the stairs to the waiting car, fingers quickly pulling up a rarely used speed dial contact. It rang several times, going to voice mail afterwards, and he cursed.

Really, Molly! Of all the times to be doing an autopsy! He told himself that that was what was happening, that nothing was wrong. Flinging open the rear door of the car, he slid in, tersely snapping out orders to the driver.

"Get me to Bart's. Now!" Mycroft rolled his eyes but stayed uncharacteristically silent, probably knowing that Sherlock's concern was entirely in the right place. At any rate, there were no goldfish comments.

John and Mary jumped in after him, all three squeezing into the back seat with Mary in the middle and Mycroft across from them with his back to the driver. Sherlock tapped his knee with his fingers, unable to keep the manic energy inside of him bottled up completely. Mary's eyes flitted to his shaking hands and she nudged John gently in the side, motioning towards them almost imperceptibly with her head. Sherlock, lost in his own world, didn't notice. John nodded slightly and grasped Mary's hand, and met Mycroft's incredulous gaze (obviously he wasn't grasping why Sherlock was so agitated, not a surprise considering his nickname was 'Iceman') before he resumed staring out the window at the city passing by at a rate that was undoubtedly not in compliance with the speed limit.

Sherlock's head spun. Entering his mind palace, he searched for Molly. For reasons he didn't want to explore, Molly had become the voice in his head. The voice he trusted more than any other. Even John. While John was there as well, his voice was more for snarky comments, representing the sarcastic part of his brain. The part of his brain that argued with him when he tried to deny something that was true. Molly was his rock, the logical portion of his mind that kept him alive and safe. Well, mostly safe. It didn't keep him from getting shot but it DID save his life afterwards. He dismissed the fact that Anderson had been there as well. He had only agreed with Molly's advice.

Sherlock searched through his mind for the conjecture of the petite pathologist but couldn't seem to find her. An irrational fear gripped him, after all he was only searching for an image of her, not the real woman, and he ran to a secured door and flung it open. A terrifying sight greeted him. The padded walls of the room were cut and torn with the letters I.O.U. all over the place. There were drops of blood on the floor and a sniper's rifle leaned casually against the wall just inside the doorway. In the place that Moriarty was previously secured, only chains remained, the locks broken open. No sign of the psychopath anywhere. Sherlock's heart stopped.

Oh God.

He had to get to Molly before Moriarty did.