How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 29: Redbeard

Sherlock tugged Molly's hand impatiently.

"Come on, Molly, we haven't got all day."

The petite woman struggled to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. At that moment, he was dragging her over a hill at his parent's estate. They were far out of sight of the house by now, having already walked a good distance. It was chilly, being late afternoon already. Sherlock let go of Molly's hand to let her pull her coat closer around her small body. Without thinking about it, he slipped off his own coat and dropped back to drape it over her.

"The cold is bothering you more than me right now," he said curtly, interrupting her attempted protest.

Given, Sherlock wasn't a fan of the cold, (hence the ever-present coat,) but he was getting more agitated by the second and he couldn't have Molly shivering, or worse, her teeth chattering, while he was trying to rein in his urge to bite her head off. Contrary to popular belief, he didn't really need John to tell him that it was bad when he mistreated Molly. Maybe years ago he did, but now he was hyperaware of every emotion that flitted across her face.

The walk was silent and uneasy. It was the most awkward he'd felt in her presence for weeks. Honestly, this shouldn't be this uncomfortable. Sherlock snorted, startling Molly who glanced at him wide-eyed. It's just some place from years ago. I don't know why this was even one of the selected places. It's not like Molly's. She lost her mother there. It almost broke her in two. Not like it even had that much of an effect on me.

He hated lying to himself.

Sherlock stalked along, the grass brushing against his shoes and the bottom of his pants, leaving the bright green blades of early spring stuck to his clothes. The sun was just above the horizon, ahead, and a little to the left of them, casting golden and pink rays across the evening sky. Had Sherlock been paying attention, he would've thought it was beautiful.

As it was, he wasn't even paying attention to where they were headed, just letting his feet take him there of their own accord. They knew the way well, even if it had been years since he visited.

Abruptly, he stopped, looking up at a large tree.

Sherlock thought he would be able to go, collect the data and leave, without looking back.

He had never been so wrong.

He was unaware of collapsing to his knees and Molly's little gasp of fright as he gazed down at the carved name in the trunk of the tree, near the base. Sherlock reached out with a shaking hand, his fingers tracing the etchings in the wood. First, the cipher, burnt into the soft wood, (acid, can't ever be erased, directly over the top of the other so I can't ever forget,) then the name, carved deep into the side of the tree by someone who either didn't know what they were doing, or couldn't focus on their task. The latter was the truth, as a young Sherlock had been blinded by tears when he carved the name of his beloved Redbeard into the tree.

He unconsciously curled up into a ball at the base of the tree, an echo of the frightened, sad, little boy who did the same all those years ago. Sherlock reached out for Molly and dimly felt her take his hand and settle down next to him, cuddling into his side, covering them both with the Belstaff as she shivered against the cool February ground.

Tears blurred Sherlock's vision.

"Molly, this is Redbeard. You would've liked him. Even though you like cats better. Redbeard was so good. He was my good boy. Mycroft never liked him. Mycroft never liked me much either. He was born old. Never wanted to play games like I did. Couldn't see the point in pretending. Redbeard did. It was just me and Redbeard. He never questioned me. He was loyal. Like John but different. Redbeard was mine, all mine."