How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 30: The Search Begins

Sherlock stomped upstairs, his mood soured by the fuss his parents made over Molly at dinner. She followed, hiding her smile at his sulky demeanor.

The detective hadn't spoken much since they left the spot where Redbeard was buried. He caught Molly giving him concerned glances throughout dinner with his parents but had chosen to remain silent. It had taken a monumental effort on his part to admit everything to Molly, only to discover that he'd actually done the same thing he had done when John asked him to be the best man. Namely, he hadn't spoken aloud. So Molly still had no idea of the depth of his feeling for her.

I'll tell her later.

"I think it would be prudent to begin our search for the book we need to decode these ciphers." He stalked into the sitting room, his hands folded behind his back. When he turned, Molly had a resigned look on her face.

"I suppose that means I can't work tomorrow again?" she questioned, already knowing what his answer would be.

"I think it would be best if you didn't. Not until we get this taken care of." He cleared his throat, beginning to gather armfuls of books that were thrown around the room.

"I had Mycroft's men bring all your books over here from your old flat. They are in the boxes there." He pointed to the couch where there were several brown boxes.

Molly heaved a sigh and stuck her bottom lip out.

"This can't wait until the morning? I know you don't sleep that much but I'm exhausted, Sherlock." She made a show of being too tired to walk to the couch, dragging her feet across the ground as she fought a smile. Sherlock thought she looked adorable.

What was I doing? Oh, right, books. Case. Dammit.

He ignored her display and turned to the desk, spreading his books out.

"No, it cannot wait. We need to find the book. This can't go on much longer." He pulled a paper from his jacket pocket and peered at it, his lips moving, but no sound was issued. After a moment, he whirled around on his heel.

"Don't bother with any book that has less than, oh, say five hundred and fifty pages." He spun back around, sorting his books into piles.

Molly sighed again and he heard the shuffling of the boxes on the couch. There was a rip of tape and Molly began digging through her own books, placing them in stacks of useful and not. After a moment, and another opening of a box, Sherlock heard a scream and a distinct thump. He turned, halfway across the room already to see Molly had fallen backwards over the coffee table and was rapidly scooting along the floor, back towards him.

He glanced up, looking for the cause of her distress and saw that one of her boxes appeared to be empty from that angle. His lips pursed and his eyes narrowed.

"One of these things is not like the others," he hummed under his breath, gently extracting his foot from Molly's fierce grip as she sat on the floor.

He gingerly padded over to the boxes and peered inside. Another envelope and,

What's this?

Sherlock pulled out a wrapped package and a tiny velvet ring box. He frowned, opting to open the ring box first. He turned towards Molly, setting the package down on the counter and opened the jewelry case gently. It popped open with a snap and he examined the ring inside.

Pretty, but too much for Molly. Too big, too shiny, why am I thinking about what kind of ring would look good on Molly's finger?

He shook his head slightly, as if to rid himself of the thought, and handed the box down to the pathologist, who took one look and dropped the box like it burned her, emitting a strangled yelp as she did so.