How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 35: Have a Heart, Sherlock

The sound of the downstairs door opening woke Sherlock. At some point during the night he had fallen asleep on the couch, his violin across his stomach and the bow hanging out of his hand onto the floor. He sat up quickly, putting the instrument onto the table and rubbing his face blearily. He took stock of his body, grimacing at the soreness of his muscles. He hadn't slept well, and he knew it was because he had become used to sleeping in his bed, with his Molly. He shook himself and stood, deciding that he needed a shower and a change of clothes. He ran his hand along his jaw and opted to shave as well.

Sherlock walked into his bedroom, once again feeling a pang in his chest as he glanced at the undisturbed bed. He continued with his actions, grabbing up his dressing gown and retreating to the bathroom. He turned on the water and while he waited for it to heat, he undressed, throwing his clothes haphazardly towards the door, creating an untidy pile on the floor. He finally climbed into the shower, letting the hot water run over his body, washing away the stress of the previous day and relaxing his tense muscles.

He was actually enjoying his shower, staying in longer than he normally would, when he heard a "Yoo hoo!" from the direction of the kitchen. He sighed.

Of course.

Sherlock turned off the water and climbed out, drying himself quickly and wrapping his blue dressing gown around his lanky body.

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson was standing in the kitchen when he exited the bathroom.

"Sherlock, what have you done? That sweet young lady left here this morning with hardly two words to me. You haven't upset her again, have you?" She bustled about, making tea and setting out some scones she'd brought upstairs, oblivious to the stiffening of Sherlock's body just after he collapsed into a chair.

"Where did she go?" he asked, his voice pitched low and strained.

His landlady looked up from the tea tray and clucked at him. "Work, silly. Where else would she go?"

His fists clenched. "I told her not to. I told her to stay here until this is over."

"Now, Sherlock, you can't keep her prisoner here in this stuffy old flat. Mycroft's men are looking after her. She'll be fine. She needs to get out of this place for a little while at least." She set a cup of the steaming liquid in front of his as he pouted.

"She isn't safe," he insisted, shaking his head, blowing on his tea before taking a tentative sip.

"Oh, of course she is. Stop being such a man." She tsked at him as he raised a brow at her choice of words. "You know what I mean. Now you be nice to that sweet thing. If you mess this up, I know I won't be the only one in line to hit you over the head." She left, still shaking her head and talking to herself about 'impossible males.'

The detective watched her go, then stood, quickly making his way to his room and throwing on some clothes. He was out the door in under five minutes.

"You left without saying goodbye."

Molly jumped, nearly dropping her files, as Sherlock stepped through the door into the lab at Bart's.

"Sherlock! Don't sneak up on me like that! You scared me!" She put a hand to her chest and stared up at him.

His anger was instantly replaced by hunger for her. Sherlock looked down at her, wanting nothing more than to take her away and bury himself inside her, forgetting about everything and everyone else. Molly must have seen the desire in his eyes because her mouth parted and her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips.

He was about to grab her, (to hell with it,) when the door banged open and a young man entered, bearing a package. Sherlock jumped back from Molly, seeing a flash of hurt in her eyes at his action.

No distractions!

"Doctor Hooper?" the man asked, pushing the package towards her.

"Yes, that's me." She grabbed onto it as he clumsily pushed it into her chest and turned abruptly, heading back through the door, letting it slam behind him. Molly shot a bewildered glance at Sherlock, who dashed to the door and stuck his head out into the hall, looking back and forth but seeing no sign of the deliveryman.

"Oh well, he wasn't important. The scuff on his boots showed that," he concluded, his head still half out the door. He was oblivious to Molly's grin and the slight shake of her head.

He ducked back into the lab and grabbed up a pair of scissors from a nearby table. He slipped the box from her grasp and onto a table before cutting it open and gingerly easing it open. Sherlock blanched as he took in the contents, glancing back at Molly to see her worriedly twisting her hands together, her bottom lip between her teeth.

He pulled out his phone and dialed a number, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pulled out a thin white envelope, still peering down into the box.

"Yes, Lestrade. I've found your missing heart. We're in the lab at Bart's."

The door slammed behind Greg as he came bursting into the lab. Molly sat on a table and Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of her, deep in his mind palace. His hands moved through the air and he mouthed words to himself.

Lestrade raised a brow at Molly who shrugged and pointed to the box opposite her. Greg peeked inside and turned a bit green as he took in the perfectly preserved heart inside. He hastily shut the package and turned back to her.

"Was there anything else inside?" he asked, swallowing down the bile in the back of his throat. Molly smirked at his squeamishness.

"Yup," she quipped, handing the detective inspector the white envelope that had been lying next to her on the counter.

He opened it and scanned the contents, glancing up at her quizzically. She shrugged again and jerked her head in Sherlock's direction.

"I have no idea. He read it and immediately began doing that." She reclined back on her hands. "He's been like that ever since he called you."

Lestrade nodded, reading the words again.

I'VE BEEN RELIABLY INFORMED THAT I DON'T HAVE ONE.

BUT WE BOTH KNOW THAT ISN'T QUITE TRUE.

"I'm assuming it means a heart. 'I've been reliably informed that I don't have one,' sounds like something Sherlock might say about a heart. Not in the literal sense of course…" Molly trailed off self-consciously.

Greg shook his head at her and pulled out the two pictures that accompanied the notecard.

"What are these?" he questioned the pathologist.

"Your guess is as good as mine. I don't recognize either building." Molly's brow furrowed and she bit her lip in thought. "I should know one of them if this is the same as the other times. One place should be from Sherlock's past and the other from mine but I don't see how it could be that if I don't remember either of these places." She reached for the pictures and Greg handed them to her so she could scan them again. She shook her head. "Nope. Neither one looks familiar in the slightest."

"I recognize both. Or at least, I know what both are."

Both Molly and Greg looked at Sherlock in surprise as he suddenly spoke. The detective pulled out his phone and rapidly typed, hitting send before replacing it in his pocket.

"So? Tell us?" Molly angled her body towards him, crossing her legs underneath her and resting her head on one hand.

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. "I'll go to these sites alone, Molly. You stay here." He strode swiftly to the door and out into the hall, with Molly and Greg staring after him, then at each other.

Molly was the first to move, mere moments later. "Like bloody hell you're going alone," she muttered under her breath as she took off after him, leaving Lestrade to stand, perplexed, alone in the lab.