How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 32: A Rose By Any Other Name

Sherlock held the door open for Molly as they entered the cheery little café on the corner. He resisted the urge to scurry over to the chair in question and followed her to the counter, listening as she ordered her coffee (with hazelnut crème and sugar) and a scone and chimed in that he wanted a coffee as well, black, two sugars. He paid and motioned for Molly to lead the way to a table, which she did.

She glanced over at her chair. It was a comfortable looking, brown leather monstrosity, and he could just imagine her curled up in it, sipping her drink, with her nose in a book, perhaps wrapped up in a throw. He made a mental note to find her one like it for the flat.

"Drink your coffee first. It can wait." He sipped his own and raised a brow at her incredulous stare. "What?"

"I don't think I've ever heard you put something before a case. Especially food!"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well, we can't have you complaining about being hungry while we're out looking for clues, can we?"

Molly took a bite of her scone and chewed it slowly before saying, "It never mattered to you if I was hungry before."

"Yes it did! I brought you crisps!" he retorted, feeling distinctly uncomfortably now.

"Ah yes, crisps. I remember now." She took a sip of her coffee and Sherlock's bad mood melted when he caught the grin that indicated she was just teasing him. They finished their drinks in silence but somehow Sherlock found himself holding her hand across the table. He looked down at it in surprise. He had been completely unconscious of the action.

Molly smiled up at him and he grinned back at her.

Why on earth did I think that living without her was better?

He cleared his throat, glancing back over to the chair and he asked, "So, why do you come here?"

She glanced at him, a bit startled by the question but Molly pursed her lips thoughtfully after a second, before gesturing around. "I guess it's comforting. It smells homey and it's quiet so I can think or read or whatever. Plus, it's far from work and my flat so I'm removed from everything."

"You mean I wouldn't find you if I needed something from Bart's." He narrowed his eyes at her. "So this is where you went those times I couldn't find you. That's cheating, Doctor Hooper." He stood and held his hand out to her, ignoring her smug grin at his admission that there were times he couldn't figure out where she had gone.

"Alright, let's see about this chair." He led her over to it and they stood staring at it for a beat before Sherlock turned it around. Sure enough, there was a cipher cut into the back of it, the leather ripped jaggedly. "Well this will need to be replaced." He pulled out his notepad and pen and scribbled down a copy of it.

Before leaving, Sherlock asked the owner a few perfunctory questions, all of which were answered exactly as he thought they would be. No one saw anyone come in and fool with the chair, and the cameras caught nothing throughout the night. Just as Sherlock suspected. After all this time, there was no way their enemy would slip up with something as simple as this.

An hour later found them at Sherlock's grave. The stone remained there, even though the man had been resurrected for over a year. Sherlock couldn't fathom Molly's hesitance to approach the tombstone, considering she had known all along that he wasn't there.

Of course, the detective knew that those years of absence had left as much a mark on Molly as on his other friends. Perhaps even more of one because Molly had known he survived the fall but wasn't privy to any information other than that. Mycroft hadn't kept her informed and she had to live her life unable to share her secret and unsure that he remained alive. She had no way of knowing if he was alright or if he had met his fate at the hands of one of the many members of Moriarty's network of criminals.

Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arm protectively around his pathologist's waist as they ambled towards the black stone. He would forever regret the selfishness that led him to put her in the position she had been in. And it WAS selfishness. Mycroft easily could've found someone else to do his 'autopsy.' It was Sherlock who wanted Molly to be the one to help him. He wanted her to know that he was alive. He didn't want to break her like that. Even more than that, he wanted a reason to come home. Sherlock wanted someone to keep the light on for him, so to speak. And he knew that Molly would do that for him because she had always loved him.

Now that he thought about it though, he knew that he had asked her because he had loved her as well, and couldn't let go of his pride long enough to tell her so. He had foolishly hoped that she would wait for him without him having to give her a shred of a reason to, and he was stupid enough to be hurt to find, when he returned, that she had moved on. It was his own fault. Sherlock was brave enough to give up his life and reputation and disappear from the world in order to defeat his arch-nemesis, but he wasn't brave enough to tell the woman he loved that he felt for her. He huffed, frustrated with himself. He still wasn't that brave.

In a way, going off to destroy Moriarty's legacy was a relief for Sherlock. He was getting dangerously close to taking Molly for himself before he left and that had terrified him. The way she leaked into every part of his mind palace was disturbing to him. She was like the wallpaper. Essential to every room but something that wasn't blatant or overbearing. Molly was just there. Everywhere. Before he left, it scared him but while he was gone, traveling the world, it was a comfort to him. SHE was a comfort to him.

Sherlock shook his head. I am a ridiculous man. I can deduce anything about anyone but when it comes to myself, I'm at a loss.

They arrived at the site and he glanced around. There was no sign of a cipher and he wondered what their 'friend' was playing at this time. His brow wrinkled at the flash of blue, crimson and yellow that lay across the grave itself. Flowers.

Sherlock reached down and gingerly picked up the bouquet, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the flowers that made up the bunch. There were several and it his mind raced through what he knew of the language of flowers, the churning in his gut growing stronger as he identified each and their meaning.

Cyclamen, a pink one, resignation or goodbye. Not good. Harebell, grief. Very not good. Dark red rose, mourning. Marigold, cruelty. This just keeps getting worse.

His eyes widened as he identified the last two.

Monkshood, beware of a deadly foe, and the black rose. Death.

His blue eyes darted up to meet Molly's brown ones. They darkened with concern as she met his gaze, no doubt seeing the panic in his face. Her eyes flitted to the flowers, her brow furrowing with confusion. She obviously recognized a couple of them but not the whole bouquet.

"Sherlock, what is it? What's wrong?"

Sherlock ignored her, choosing instead to drop the bunch on the ground and plant his foot on top of it, grinding it into the dirt with his heel. He circled the stone and his eyes narrowed when he saw no cipher. He glanced around, becoming increasingly frustrated, until he felt a tap on his shoulder. The detective froze and his eyes followed the line that his pathologist was pointing. There, carved into the tree that he had hidden behind when John had been at the grave, was the marker he was searching for. He pulled out his notepad and sketched it before grabbing Molly's hand and practically dragging her out of the cemetery.

Just as they got to the gate, his phone rang.