How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 30: The Search Begins

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he glanced back and forth from the box, now on the floor, to Molly, who was as pale as death. Suddenly, it clicked.

"Molly, do you recognize that ring?"

She nodded fearfully, her eyes never leaving the little blue case. She was watching it as if it was a snake that might bite her at any moment.

"Whose is it?" Sherlock inquired, a bit inpatient with her fear.

It's just a ring for God's sakes, Molly.

"It's my mother's," she replied in a quavering voice. Her lip trembled and tears formed in her eyes.

"Nonsense. It can't be." Sherlock reached over the table and picked up the box again, scrutinizing the ring carefully.

Hmmm, not her mother's, but our friend as taken steps to make it look as much like the original as possible. I wonder…

Sherlock searched through his mind palace, looking for the layout of Molly's flat. When he found it, he pushed the door open and stood in her sitting room, glancing all around. He finally found what he was looking for; a photo of Molly's parents on their engagement day, with her Mother proudly showing off her new ring.

"Molly, someone has been in your flat."

The woman on the floor looked up, startled.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"There is a photo in your sitting room of your mother showing off this ring, or rather the original. Someone used that photo as a reference to have one made that appears to be the same. It's isn't really your mother's, only a copy. It's psychological warfare, Molly."

His mind flitted back to the other package and he knew before opening it what would be inside.

Sherlock unwrapped the cheerful red paper slowly, revealing an exact replica of Redbeard's leather collar. Sherlock's uncle had been a leatherworker in his youth and had made his nephew a custom collar for his beloved pet.

Sherlock held it for a moment, staring down at it, feeling the leather between his fingers. The design as almost exactly the same as he remembered, a motif of celtic knots all the way around. It was distressed to look old, as the original had, and even had some mud stains on it. Sherlock had no doubt that if he were to analyze the mud, it would have come from the area he grew up in.

He shuddered before gently placing it back in the box and withdrawing the envelope. He weighed it in his hands, then opened it. As he suspected, it contained two more photos. First, he read the scrap of paper that was tucked between them.

NEXT LESSON : ESCAPE

His brow wrinkled in confusion.

Escape? What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?

He picked up the pictures, looking from one to the other.

Oh, of course.

One of the photos was his grave, the black stone glinting in the sunlight. The other was the armchair that Molly favored in her favorite café.

Escape. What we do to escape our problems. Molly goes to the café to read and drink hot chocolate when she is troubled. I faked my death to escape the Moriarty issue. Escape.

He straightened and turned to Molly, smiling.

"Well, it seems as if we have our chores for tomorrow."

She silently held out her hand for the pictures, but he surprised her by grabbing it and pulling her to her feet, crushing her tiny body against his much larger one as he sought her lips.

He smiled against her mouth as she melted into the kiss, opening her mouth for him when his tongue swiped across her bottom lip, demanding entrance. Before he even realized it, he was walking her backwards and pressing her bum against the cold surface of the kitchen counter. He nudged her legs apart, putting himself into the space between them and ground against her, bringing a soft moan from her. He pulled back long enough to pull her shirt up over her head and began kissing down her neck to her shoulder as his clever fingers worked at the clasp to her bra. She turned her head, giving him better access to the long expanse of her creamy skin and he latched onto it, sucking a dark mark into her skin.

He stepped away after a few minutes, taking his bra with her. Molly was a wreck; her breathing heavy, eyes half closed, face flushed. Sherlock ran a finger over her kiss stung lips, knowing he looked much the same as she did. She opened her eyes and the hunger he saw there mirrored his own.

He grinned, an almost feral look, as he wrapped his arms around her, encouraging her to, in turn, wrap her legs around his waist, which she did.

Sherlock picked up his Molly and made his way to his room, anxious to bury himself inside her and forget everything else.