How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 38: Searching

Sherlock watched helplessly as Molly stormed into Baker Street with a single-minded purpose.

She immediately began tossing books right and left, frantically searching for the correct one. He was taken aback by her manner, considering that she had been silent and listless since they'd first set foot in that terrible room.

Now, her movements were erratic, bordering on manic. It worried him.

"Molly," he started, but was cut off by the abrupt sound of a thick book hitting the wall. She stared at the place where it had made contact in disbelief. The pathologist took in a deep, shuddering breath, and looked down at her hands, then over at Sherlock, her eyes wide with some unnamed emotion.

Fear.

Sherlock's heart clenched as he realized that the petite woman was terrified. Afraid of what might happen if they couldn't solve the riddle given to them. The detective stepped silently into the room and sighed, glancing around at all the books. He looked back at Molly, who was still coping with having lost her composure a moment before.

Sherlock took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, containing all of the ciphers, and gazed at it for a moment. Walking over to his desk, dodging piles of books along the way, he picked up a heavy volume and consulted it. After a couple minutes of study, he wrote down a series of numbers and made his way to the couch, pulling out a push pin and sticking the list to the wall.

"There. Those are the numbers we're looking for. The first is page, the second, word number," he stated, matter-of-factly, inwardly cursing how cold he sounded. He couldn't let sentiment cloud his mind now though, not when he had such a limited amount of time to solve this puzzle.

He shot off a quick text to John and Lestrade, asking them to come help in the search. Molly and he had far too many books between them to sort through all of them on their own and hope to find the answers in time.

He picked up a book and flipped to the first set of coordinates, and snapped the book shut when he found nothing useful. Out of the corner of eye, he saw Molly lethargically follow suit. His lips pursed as he eyed the stacks around them. They had a lot of work to do.

Five hours in, and with the help of both the Detective Inspector (who had been far too attentive to Molly than strictly necessary) and John, they were still no closer to finding the clues left for them.

Sherlock was becoming increasingly frustrated, as were the others. Mrs. Hudson had just scuttled back down to her flat after Sherlock had yelled at her for daring to bring them all tea and biscuits. Molly had devoured the food, getting odd glances from everyone except Sherlock, who remembered her stress induced eating on Valentine's Day. It seemed like so long ago, but was, in fact, only five short days.

So much had happened in that time.

They worked mostly in silence, with only the occasional suggestion of a series of words from one of the books and Sherlock's biting dismissal of each recommendation.

It was almost four in the morning and they'd been at it since seven the previous evening. Sherlock came out of his thoughts to glance around and sigh. Lestrade and John were both passed out on the couch and in the chair, respectively.

Molly was nowhere to be seen.

The man ran a hand through his hair, a harried look on his face, and started towards his bedroom, needing to make sure his girlfriend was safe. He frowned upon opening the door and realizing the room was empty.

Oh.

He'd completely forgotten that she'd not spent the previous night curled up by his side, but upstairs in the spare room. He closed his room and headed back through the kitchen and sitting room, shaking his head at the sleeping men, before scaling the stairs.

The detective opened the door with a quiet click and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of Molly sprawled out across the bed, still in her clothes. He entered quietly, closing the door behind him and pulled out his phone, setting the alarm for two hours, just in case. When that was done, Sherlock crossed the room and climbed carefully onto the bed next to the sleeping woman. He gathered her into his arms, brushing the hair from her face, and clutched her to his chest. As he breathed deeply of her scent, he vaguely scolded himself for wasting time, but pushed the thought to the back of his mind, focusing on his love.

Love?

They hadn't used the word yet in their relationship and he was frankly startled that it came to mind so easily. The more he thought about it though, the more he knew it was the right word to use. Only in his head, anything more was too much for him to handle right now.

After all this is over, he promised himself.

Sherlock awoke, blinking rapidly, as his alarm went off. He was surprised that he'd actually slept, but remembered that the night before, he'd been on the couch and his rest had not been very satisfying.

He disentangled himself from the still form of his girlfriend and smiled down at her for moment. His face grew somber when he thought of their task for the day and the fact that half of their time was already gone.

He stood and stretched, leaving the small woman in the bed, then headed back down the stairs to start again. John was up, his military regimen not allowing him to sleep late. The army doctor was sipping a cup of coffee and held his cup up to Sherlock in a silent invitation, to which the detective nodded. John got up and poured him a cup, dropping in two sugars, and handed it to Sherlock, who'd collapsed into the chair opposite his friend.

"Sherlock?" John asked after a moment. "What happens if we don't figure this out in time?"

The taller man pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger of the hand that wasn't gripping the coffee cup, his eyes scrunched together.

"Honestly, I don't know. I'm assuming death and destruction," he quipped, grimacing at John's expression of disapproval as much as the scalding sip of coffee he took too quickly.

"Not good, mate." John shook his head in fond exasperation.

"Yes well, being worried about it isn't going to speed this up," Sherlock replied, reflecting that this conversation was rather similar to another one they'd had in the past. The look on John's face said that he was thinking the same thing.

Both men finished their coffee in silence, rising up to once again to tackle the books afterwards.

John shook Greg awake and he blearily rubbed his eyes.

"Mols asleep?" were the first words out of his mouth and Sherlock shot him a venomous glance.

"Yeah," answered John, and Lestrade nodded, getting to his feet and saying something about the loo. He padded off in the direction of Sherlock's bathroom.

The detective grabbed up a book and soon after, the three men were once again embroiled in their search.