The Game Is On

Chapter Four: Gone Again

"You knew?" I asked Mycroft, as I paced around his office. "He wanted to tell you John... really I assure you," Mycroft said, folding his hands into his lap. "But he also wanted to protect you." "One word, Mycroft. That's all I would have needed. One word to let me know he was alive." He looked me over slowly. "We worried that you may say something... indiscreet." "What?" "You know... let the cat out of the bag," he answered, turning in his chair. "So this is my fault!?" I laughed in disbelief. "Why am I the only one who thinks this is wrong - the only one acting like a human being?!" Mycroft huffed. "over-reacting." "Over reacting??" I shouted. "Sherlock ruined my life... then waltzes back in to it, large as bloody life..." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "...But i'm not supposed to have a problem with, no, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it's a perfectly OKAY THING TO DO!" I slammed my fists on his table. Mycroft flinched, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "It is what it is John."

•

Mary glanced at me as I stormed into our flat, throwing my coat down onto the floor. She raised her eyebrows, silently asking for an explanation. "I saw Mycroft," I began, my hands still curled into firsts by my side. "And?" she prompted, tapping the seat beside her. I walked to the sofa and gingerly sat down, still stiff from my meeting with the eldest Holmes. "He's as much of an arse as his brother," I finished, flexing my knuckles. Mary chuckled. "I like him," she stated. "Who?" I demanded, turning to face her. Mary shrugged, smiling. "Sherlock."

•

I walked along the sidewalk, groceries in my hand. I hadn't heard from Sherlock all day - though I was somewhat relieved at his absence. Rage still called out from inside me, all the pain and heartbreak from the past two years had turned cold. My phone buzzed.

Save souls now!
Sherlock or Mycroft Holmes?

Saint or sinner?
James or John?
The more is less?

I frowned. Probably just spam, I thought to myself as I put the phone back in my pocket. The flat was silent when I arrived. "Mary?" I called out, setting the groceries on the table. She poked her head out from the bathroom. "Over here," she replied. I chuckled stepping towards her, presenting my phone. "People have already started sending Sherlock chain mail. I rolled my eyes but before I could delete the message, Mary grabbed the phone from my hand. She whispered the line under her breath, her eyes widening. "John.... I - I think someone's got Sherlock..." I furrowed my brow. "What?" "It's a skip code." I rubbed my temples. "I don't follow?" She sighed. "First word, then every third. Save... Sherlock... Holmes... Saint.... James... The... Less." I gasped. Mary looked at me confused. "Saint James the Less - it's a church," I replied, grabbing her hand.

Together we raced down the street. I hesitated momentarily, deciding which way to go. "There's no time," Mary shouted, pulling me along. I lead her down London, through back alleys Sherlock and I used to use as shortcuts. As we approached the church, cheering echoed through the yard. A large bonfire was assembled, stacked seven feet into the air. A man approached it with a torch. Just then my phone buzzed again. Mary pulled it from my pocket, reading the message aloud.

Things are heating up here...

Mary covered her mouth with her hand. "My god..." I whispered, sprinting towards the bonfire. We pushed through the crowd of people as the wood ignited. A scream - a mans scream - rang out from beneath the pile. People watched in horror as the flames consumed the wood. I reached the front of the crowd and threw myself at the fire, tearing away the scorching kindling. I felt a soft object and grabbed, hoisting the man out from the fire. I dragged the body through the grass. Sherlock. Blood was plastered on his forehead and his face was pale. "Sherlock!" I called, patting his face. Mary rested a hand on my shoulder. "Sherlock can you hear me?" He gazed back at me blankly. I wrapped my arms the detective, his coat still hot from the fire. "Thank you..." he breathed, before passing out in my arms. Mary hugged me as all the cold, icy bitterness melted away. I tightened my grasp on Sherlock, holding onto his frail frame. "I'm so sorry..."