In The Game of Love

six

Y/N was relieved when she found Mary not home. She hurried up the stairs and began throwing her belongings into bags. She knew, from previous experience, that she couldn't take much. But, unfortunately, Y/N had stayed here too long and gathered too many things that now held sentimental value. The necklace Mary bought her as a surprise. Her favorite books she had been collecting on the bookshelf against the wall. A slew of favorite dresses, hats, and shoes neatly put away in the wardrobe.

She paused, briefly, looking around at the room she stayed too long in, in a house full of so many memories. The best memories she'd ever made in her entire life. She finished packing the necessities before changing into pants and disguising herself to look more like a young man. She headed down to the front door. Her hand trembled as it took hold of the door knob. Looking over her shoulder for a brief moment, Y/N looked at the only happy home she'd ever known. Then she walked out into the cold streets of London.

But her mind couldn't stop reeling over the case Sherlock was working on. How basically her life was at stake, even if she ran. Irene would see to that. But maybe, just maybe... if Y/N solved the case and took what the Professor wanted from it, she could bargain for her freedom. She just needed to solve the case, whether she was by Sherlock's side or not.

~~~

After waking up in the morning naked and handcuffed to a bed, Sherlock found himself in the home of Sir Thomas Rotheram. The man was dead in his own bathtub. But, even as Sherlock took in every detail of the scene and surrounding areas, he couldn't stop thinking of Y/N. Had she begun running? And if so, where? Who was she, really? And who was she so terrified of that even he couldn't help?

Sherlock finished inspecting the scene and headed to get a body. One of the men that attacked at Reordan's place was dead and Sherlock wanted to get information from him. Sherlock went home with three policemen carrying the body. He knew the perfect place for it, he just had to make sure it was okay.

John was in the room, packing up his things. Sherlock opened the door, a nervous glint in his eye. He leaned against the open door as John looked back at him.

"I didn't know you were here," John said.

"Since this room is no longer yours, do you mind if I utilize it?" Sherlock wondered.

"Be my guest."

Sherlock reached up to unlatch and open the other side of the door. "In here, chaps."

"Where would you like to put him, sir?" One of the men asked.

"Anywhere is fine."

The men put the body on the table in the room and unzipped the black body bag. After the body was situated, the policemen took their leave.

"Who is he?" John asked, still packing away his things.

"He's the man who tried to kill you at Reordan's lodgings," Sherlock answered, already studying the man. "I suppose his neck didn't survive the impact of Dredge landing on him."

"Yes. Thanks for that, by the way."

"But there is some consolation in the knowledge that he can still be of service to his fellow man." Sherlock lifted the man's arm and studied it with a magnifying glass. "Elbows and arms stained with blood, but it's older than his own injuries."

Sherlock set the arm down and glanced up to see John watching him. John tried to quickly go back to work, to make it look like he wasn't interested. Sherlock smirked at the reaction before going back to his observations.

"None of it's human," Sherlock stated. "He's not a butcher, let me see."

Sherlock set his gun down and lit a candle near the table before cutting off a piece of the man's hair. He then held the hair to the flames. Taking it out while it was on fire, he watched it burn.