How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 5: Reintroductions and Revelations

A month passed with no new developments.

Sherlock and Molly gradually fell into a routine, becoming more at ease with living together. Occasionally, she would help with his experiments, mostly observing and taking notes while he handled the samples. The easy way they worked together in the lab translated over to the research done in the flat and Sherlock found that he got a lot more done when she was willing to be his partner.

Molly baked on her days off (Sherlock hadn't seen so much of Mycroft since they were kids living in their parents' house.) He had to admit (to himself) that he had gained a bit of weight since she moved in. Sherlock had taken to sitting at the kitchen table to watch her work. When questioned by her the first time he did it, he replied that he was bored. In truth, he liked observing her. She was efficient in everything she did and baking was no exception. She precisely measured ingredients and mixed them together before placing them in the oven (which she always checked before pre-heating after accidentally incinerating some papers Sherlock had put inside the rarely used appliance the first time she baked.)

It was in the midst of a batch of biscuits that Sherlock received a phone call. He glanced at the display and paled.

Call Blocked.

He motioned for Molly to stop her actions and sit next to him, which she did, albeit looking a bit confused, before he answered, putting it on speaker for her to hear as well.

"Hello?" he said, hoping it wasn't what he thought.

Of course, it was, and a voice sang out, "Honey, I'm home!" There was a tinge of Irish lilt to be heard in it, though the voice itself was distorted a bit, making it impossible to correctly identify from sound alone.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Is that supposed to make me happy?"

"Oh, it should Sherlock. It should. I know you missed me. All those other criminals are so boring, aren't they? You missed our game." Sherlock remained silent, waiting for the point of the conversation.

Suddenly, the voice sang again, this time louder, making both Molly and the detective jump.

"Molly, my love, are you there?!" Sherlock frowned at the endearment but nodded for her to answer.

"I'm here. Who are you?" she replied, making an effort to keep her voice from shaking. Her lips trembled ever so slightly and Sherlock found himself taking her hand in his before he really thought about it.

"Good golly, Miss Molly!" the voice sang out, ignoring her question. "Never would've pegged you to be the type of girl to shack up with a guy so quickly! Especially one who you know doesn't care about you at all. Not when you were such a prude on our dates." The voice sounded almost offended.

Here, Sherlock and Molly made eye contact. Jim from IT. Moriarty.

"It's ok though. I eventually got your clothes off, didn't I, Mols?"

Molly stiffened as Sherlock shot her a rather furious glare. Seeing raw pain in her eyes though, his expression turned first to confusion, then horror. Before he could say anything to her however, the voice continued.

"But to be fair, our consulting detective is yummy, isn't he? And such a challenge. Not even she could get him into bed, and God knows she's much more talented than you. You haven't a prayer, little angel. Best give up now while you're ahead!"

Molly's eyes were filled with tears by this point and the sight of her in distress made Sherlock angry for reasons he'd rather not investigate now.

"You always go for the bad guys though, don't you Molly?"

Sherlock had finally had enough. "Is there a point to this conversation?" he asked coldly.

"Oh yes, Sherlock! Of course there's a point! There's always a point! But you'll have to figure it out on your own because I've got a date! Bye bye!" With that, the line went dead.

Sherlock slowly lowered his phone to the table and reclaimed the hand that Molly had taken from him during the course of the phone call. Her hand was stiff in his grasp, her eyes avoiding his, and he sighed before asking the obvious question.

"When, Molly? When did he hurt you?"

She gazed up at him, keeping her face carefully blank, and replied quietly, "Not long after I broke up with him. It was before the pool so I thought it was just the actions of an angry ex."

Sherlock gave a rather annoyed huff. "And why didn't you tell me?"

Molly let the tears fall then, silently streaming down her cheeks as she mumbled her response to the floor. "Because I don't matter."

A flash of true pain crossed Sherlock's face, unseen by Molly as she maintained her stare at the floor. "Molly, how many times must I tell you that you do count. You're one of the few who do."

Her head shot up, her angry glare catching him off guard. "No I don't, Sherlock! If I mattered to you, you would've seen the bruises. The sadness! The pain! But you didn't even look at me! You never do and you never will!"

She snatched her hand back from him and ran from the room, abandoning the biscuits and him in the kitchen, as she scurried up to the relative privacy of her room.

Sherlock sat in shock, staring in nothing in particular, going over and over Molly's words in his mind. How could he have missed it? He had been so caught up in himself that he hadn't seen the pain under his pathologist's cheerful smile. Or he had dismissed it as a symptom of breakup. Either way, he had failed her. No wonder Moriarty had thought that she didn't matter. No wonder there was no sniper on her that day.

Sherlock now understood the point of the phone call. It was to drive a wedge between him and his pathologist. And Sherlock had no intentions of letting that happen.