How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 6: Failed Attempt

Three days later, Sherlock put his plan into play.

Molly had barely spoken to him since they received the phone call and it was driving him crazy. The logical portion of his mind (the annoying part that sounded like Mycroft) told him that it shouldn't matter if she was angry with him or not, that he should be focusing on finding Moriarty, or whoever, so life could go back to normal. While he DID puzzle over it, he also spent a good deal of his time scheming out ways to regain Molly's good favor.

He hated to admit it but he missed the way she used to blush and giggle self-consciously whenever he was near her. He even missed when she berated him for being thoughtless and rude. Now, she was just silent and it was killing him. So he formulated a plan to get on her good side.

If I take her out for coffee, she'll be thrilled and go back to adoring me. He shook his head. Not that I want her mooning over me like before (he lied to himself, since when did he need to do that?) but anything is preferable to the deadly quiet that radiates from her now.

He grinned to himself before going to his closet and choosing his clothes with care. She loves this shirt, he thought, picking up the deep purple one that made her breath hitch when she saw him in it. He finished dressing (black suit and shoes) and pulled out the Belstaff and his favorite blue scarf. She loves this too. He smirked, shrugging on the coat and tying the scarf around his long neck before taking the stairs to her room two at a time in his eagerness while slipping on his leather gloves. It was a cold day in February and he was thankful for it. His signature look wasn't all that comfortable in summer.

He rapped loudly on her door before opening it without waiting for a response. There was a shriek and Molly dove into the bed, burrowing under the blankets. Sherlock's eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of bare bottom and he quickly dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Ummm," he cleared his throat. "Sorry Molly. Forgot to wait." He clasped his hands in front of him and looked back up at her, her head the only thing showing above the duvet, and put on his best contrite expression.

She lifted a brow, obviously not fooled, and huffed. "What could you possibly want, Sherlock? I already told you that I don't want to help you with any experiments."

He shook his head and responded, "We are out of coffee and since it is such a cold day, I would like a cup." She made to berate him for the supposed demand, but he cut her off with a hand held up. "I thought you might like to accompany me to the café."

Her face was the picture of surprise, her mouth falling open and eyes widening before narrowing again in suspicion, her mouth tightening into a flat line. "Is this for a case?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, shaking his head at her. "Molly, really. Can I not ask you out for coffee?"

"Well you never did before!"

"Well I am now!!" he cried out in exasperation. "You are making this rather difficult!" They stared each other down for a moment and Sherlock was about to give up and stomp downstairs for a sulk when she sighed, resigned.

"Alright, alright. We'll go to the café. Why, I don't know."

"For coffee, Molly. Obviously." She shot him a distrustful glare but made to get up. He remained standing in the door and she glared at him.

"I need to get dressed."

"Mmm," he hummed his affirmation. "That might help."

"Sherlock, OUT."

"Oh, right, sorry."

A few minutes later, she appeared downstairs, dressed in a hideous strawberry print jumper that Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from commenting on.