How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 22: A Tale of Two Presents

Sherlock paced the room, listening to an annoyingly impassive Mycroft rattle off details his people had gathered about the bombing.

“No one was hurt. The building was empty. There was some collateral damage but nothing too serious. It seems that it was entirely orchestrated to be a warning to you.”

Molly, who had been silent since they left Mary and John at the clinic, piped up. “A warning? What for? We haven’t done anything to make him angry.” She looked to Sherlock, her eyes questioning. “Have we?”

Sherlock sighed and silently handed her his phone, the call log pulled up on the display. Her eyes went round.

“Oh.”

He didn’t bother showing her the text. It wouldn’t make any difference.

Mycroft stood, raising a brow at Sherlock. “I suggest you don’t commit that mistake again.” There was no misunderstanding the meaning behind his words.

He let himself out, leaving Sherlock and Molly staring at each other. After a few moments of stalemate, Molly stood and went to climb in his lap. Sherlock’s arms curled around her automatically (when did this become automatic?) and he whispered, “I’m sorry the day ended up like this.”

Molly sat up and looked at him. “Sherlock, why did you ignore him? You never ignore phone calls. Especially when you know they are important.”

He averted his eyes. “Well, uhm, John said I should not get distracted during the day. That I should focus on you. So I never checked to see who was calling.”

Molly smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. When she pulled back, he licked his lips, completely unconscious of the action.

“Oh Sherlock,” she shook her head fondly. “I know you have to work. I don’t need to be the center of your attention all the time.”

How did I not see years ago that she is the perfect woman for me?

Abruptly, Sherlock sat bolt upright, nearly knocking Molly onto the floor.

“Oh, I forgot!” His face lit up and his eyes darted past the kitchen.

“What, what is it?” Molly looked around frantically. Sherlock pushed Molly off his lap, stood and grabbed her hand, practically hauling her towards his bedroom.

“I got you a present! John said to get you something meaningful, something that was unique to you.”

(Actually, that conversation went more like, “No, Sherlock, when I said unique to her I didn’t mean incredibly morbid,” as Sherlock presented John with a human heart in a jar. “But -” “But nothing. I’m sure you’ll figure out something more appropriate and MUCH less creepy.” “But she’s a pathologist, she likes morbid.” “No. Just, no.”)

He stopped in front of the bathroom and turned to her. Her expression was one of complete and utter confusion.

“You got me a present? And it’s in the bathroom?”

He nodded enthusiastically before throwing the door open.

He puffed up with pride at Molly’s shocked gasp.

I knew she’d love it.

There, in the bathroom, stood a gorgeous claw footed soaker tub. It was huge, much larger than even the one she had back at her own flat. It dominated the bathroom, the copper finish glinting in the fluorescent light.

She stood staring at it in shock for a little too long for Sherlock’s taste.

He scooped her up in his arms, shimmying his way through the narrow doorway and deposited her in the tub.